


Damage Control

by TheDevilsFeet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A very long car ride, Anal Sex, Awkward Conversations, BAMF Gregory, Bottom Mycroft, Fluffy Feelings, Foreplay, Gregory wants to take care of Mycroft, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mycroft has a complex about his weight, Mycroft really likes chocolate, Oral Sex, Sherlock can sometimes be a prat, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Sometimes Mycroft really doesn't know how to let people love him, Swearing, Top Gregory, first time fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDevilsFeet/pseuds/TheDevilsFeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't Mycroft's man. He didn't carry out his bidding, or do his dirty work. But when it came to Sherlock Holmes, Gregory bent his own rules, and often found himself doing Damage Control. This time, however, perhaps the damaged soul was not the younger Holmes brother, but the elder, and Lestrade's control is slipping. Mystrade Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So Our Story Begins

**Author's Note:**

> So, my co-writer and I are writing this story together. Calabash is the wonderful Gregory Lestrade, and I am trying my hand at Mycroft Holmes. We had so much fun writing this story. We fell in love with the Mystrade ship, and this was one of the most fun stories we've written. It has a slow build, and a lot of feels, but there's tons of sex! We hope you like it!

He was walking out of the office when he received the call.

The familiar ringtone sang out, and his jacket pocket buzzed, and for a few precious moments, Greg Lestrade gazed about at his team, hustling to lock up their desk drawers, pull on their coats, laughing and making plans to meet up at a local pub for a few drinks before they returned home to their families. Greg did not have to ask or wonder if he was invited; he had a standing invitation. One of the advantages of not being an arrogant twat was that his men actually liked him. Even Sally had her moments of friendly camaraderie with her boss, and as he gazed longingly at their retreating backs, Greg wished fiercely he was going with them. His phone stopped buzzing. He waited a few seconds, thinking that this time, perhaps, he would be left alone to go back to his cold flat, make a cuppa, order something to eat, have a wank, watch telly, take a shower, and go to bed. But as his large feet moved towards the door again, the phone once more began to vibrate and chirp, and he groaned. No rest for the weary. He pulled the mobile out of his pocket, making his way swiftly out of the building towards his car. "Yeah. I'm just leaving now. Where are you?" He sighed, pausing at the front door of his vehicle. "Well... how bad was it?" he asked softly, fumbling for his keys. "Do they need a hospital? I.. No. No. Yeah, all right, I'll talk to John. I can't take time off right now. No, I can't. I... Yeah. Fine, I'll meet you at your office." He snapped the phone shut, and threw himself in the car with a huff.

Damn, he hated being the first line of defence for Mycroft Holmes! Why the hell he thought Sherlock gave a shit what Greg told him to do was completely beyond the inspector's understanding. It was bad enough before the little doctor came into his life, but now... Hell. Now every time John and Sherlock got into a tiff, and beat each other senseless, Mycroft was on the horn with Lestrade. And now, the pair of volatile lovers were holed up in some wretched hotel in Italy on a case, injured, and not answering their phones. They could be dead; they could be making love like wild rabbits, which was Greg's assumption. Bloody hell. Why hadn't he left Sherlock to the drugs years ago? He tore down the streets of London towards Mycroft's office, his eyes narrow.

Mycroft was waiting for Gregory Lestrade in his office at the Diogenes Club. He was seated, as usual, in the chair behind his desk, finishing a few pressing, last minute tasks before he would be through for the day and, if he was lucky, the entire weekend. His brother, of course, had found himself in a rather desperate situation, and this time Mycroft did not see any other way out of the whole fiasco other than going in himself. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with a weary hand. One more problem he did not need. England was never without its difficulties, and oft times, when things were sailing smoothly it was because something sinister was being plotted. He did NOT need his little brother getting stuck in Italy in the middle of a Mafioso turf war. The man groaned and reached for a half empty glass of port that sat near his elbow. It had been a painfully long day, and Mycroft wanted it to end quickly. Gregory would be here soon, and they could be on their way, and that was a blessing. At least he knew he could count on the man to be efficient and discrete. Mycroft wanted to keep this whole situation away from the public eye as much as possible, though that seemed almost impossible when Sherlock was involved. It was why he had quietly tied up all the loose ends here in London, decided to take his own car rather than hiring one, and opted to drive himself instead of have his usual man do it. It was a 19 hour trip at least, and he wanted to make it through the night. With another resigned sigh, Mycroft took a sip of his drink. Waiting for Gregory to show up.

The inspector did not stop to ask directions to Mycroft's office; he'd done that only once at this club, and had been humiliated and infuriated at the results. Now, he simply marched down the carpeted halls, scowling fiercely the entire way, and he pushed a pair of heavy oak doors open, waiting until they clicked shut behind him before he spoke. "Well? What the hell is so bloody important that I have to come with you, eh?" He grumbled all the way to the padded leather chair, falling into its baby soft, welcoming cushion with a petulant grunt. "Can't you go by yourself?"

Mycroft looked up at the irked man and smiled thinly. "I want to keep this quiet as much as possible." He said pleasantly, folding his hands on the desk. "It is a very long drive, Gregory, and I would rather have someone I trust at my back. Sherlock has got himself in a ticklish situation, and I need to extract him." The elder Holmes brother curled his lip slightly at the complete lack of discretion Sherlock had. "He is in the middle of a turf war, as I told you before, and I need someone who is dependable and knows what to do in a hostile situation. Not to mention you will be able to talk my brother out of his hair brained scheme, or at least talk some sense into Dr Watson. They will listen to you." He added a little bitterly. Yes, he and Sherlock had never been close, but good lord, it wasn't as though he didn't have the petulant brat's best intentions in mind! He loved his little brother and did not want him to come to harm, yet Sherlock resented him and would not listen, no matter how much he asked.

"They DON'T listen to me." Greg leaned forward, clasping his hands between his legs. He stared down the elder Holmes brother, meeting those cold, teal eyes with frankness. "They never have. John... John listens, but he makes his own damned decisions, doesn't he? And if it's between me and your brother, he's going to side with Sherlock every time." Greg shrugged, shaking his head. Mycroft knew all this. When they'd caught the two men undermining an investigation that Greg had been working on for months, had they listened to reason? No. Sherlock went along on his merry way, and John skipped along behind, and true, they'd caught Greg's man, but... but it had been damned unorthodox of them, and they'd nearly been unable to put him away, because the jury wouldn't buy the evidence! Had they listened when Mycroft and Greg insisted they stop shagging behind the coffee shop in broad daylight? They'd been caught on tape, for fuck's sake! No. They hadn't, and they never would. He chuckled a bit, rubbing his temples. He was getting a headache. "I've got the weekend, Mycroft, and that's all I can give you. I have to be back Monday morning, sharp." Greg didn't even know why he agreed to this sort of thing. Maybe it was the perplexed, frustrated look in Mycroft's eye. Greg knew what he did for a living. He knew how stressed and anxious the man got. For once, he wished Sherlock would be considerate, and let them breathe for a while.

Mycroft nodded gratefully and rose to his feet. "That will be more than adequate." He picked up his briefcase and indicated that Gregory should follow him. Walking silently through the long hall, Mycroft contemplated exactly how he would manage to extract his brother from the complicated situation he'd placed himself in. It wouldn't be easy, but Mycroft had almost a day to figure it out. He would think of something. He always did. Stepping out through the doors, Mycroft walked swiftly down the pavement until he reached his car. "We have to make a stop at my house first so that I can pick up my necessities, then we will make sure to get your things as well." He did not turn around to look at the man. He didn't need to because he felt the look of surprise on Gregory's face.

Mycroft's car was a beautiful one. It was black and sleek and leapt at a simple touch. Pure perfection on wheels, yet he did not like to use it for business, which was all he seemed to be able to do these days. Normally he preferred to use a different car, a more expendable one, with a driver. Which was why, he knew, Gregory was so surprised. He unlocked the doors and slid in the driver seat.

Greg did not speak as he got in the passenger seat, and he did not speak on the drive to Mycroft's place. He waited in the car, wondering why it felt as if something were missing from this scenario, as Mycroft Holmes glided in his front door, and returned more minutes later with a small, black satchel. He placed it delicately in the back seat, and without a word, they pulled away, rolling. He laughed out loud, lifting his eyebrows and opening the door. "Must be trouble if Anthea's not even here," he mumbled, turning to trudge up the concrete stairs to his flat.

It took him only five minutes to gather the few things he'd need for the weekend. He grabbed an overnight bag, and tossed in a pair of jeans, a few shirts, shorts, socks, his toiletries, and as he was rifling through his medicine cabinet, looking for his new toothbrush, his hands strayed upon the box of condoms he'd kept in there for ages. Greg blinked at them, glancing at his bag, and he rolled his eyes at his own momentary flash of hope. There was no way in hell he'd have a few moments to himself to seduce some raven haired Italian beauty. Not that he'd be able to with the likes of Sherlock fucking Holmes walking about with his cheekbones and his coat and his curly hair and his arrogant smile. Damn him. Greg shoved the condoms back in the cabinet, and he clattered down the stairs again, sighing as he let himself in the car. "All right. Let's go. My rent's due, and I don't have it. Drive before they see me."

Mycroft nodded and took off, making a mental note to pay Gregory's rent. It was the least he could do.

After three hours of driving, Mycroft looked at the clock and then at his companion. It was past 9 o'clock. "Are you hungry?" He asked quietly, his gaze returning to the straight stretch of road. "We'll have to get a hotel, I am afraid. The ferries won't be open by the time we reach them." He wrinkled his nose a little at the thought of staying at a hotel below his usual standards.

"I could eat." Greg stirred from a restless slumber, his face cold where it had been smashed against the window. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, blinking out at the black sky and the endless English terrain. It was raining again. He stretched, and his stomach rumbled. Mycroft glanced at him again, and Greg folded his arms over his chest, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His long legs were cramped, despite the luxurious space. "Starved, actually," he amended, and yawned again. "Need me to drive a while?"

Mycroft nodded silently, pulling over to the side of the road. He was very glad that Gregory had offered, because he would not have asked otherwise. "There will be a hotel near the ferry. The directions are programmed into the GPS." He nodded to the device and unlocked the doors. "Wake me if you need me. It shouldn't be more than three or four more hours driving." Getting out of the car, Mycroft allowed himself a yawn, making sure that he was out of the detective inspector's view first. He was exhausted and in need of a very long rest. Sleep had not been coming easily to Mycroft Holmes as of late, and it was beginning to take its toll on the man. He felt weary all the time.

Greg lifted his eyebrows, surprised at the ease with which Mycroft had relinquished control of his vehicle. He'd always thought of the older brother as a bit of a power addict, as deeply entrenched in his drug of choice, control, as Sherlock had once been in his. The inspector took the keys with a smile, and slid behind the steering wheel happily. He was quite pleased to be driving. He liked cars, and Mycroft's was a beauty. They pulled away from the grassy shoulder, and within minutes, Greg heard soft snores whispering from Mycroft's lips. He smiled again, glancing over at him. Good. The man looked nothing short of exhausted. He needed sleep. Greg turned on the radio very quietly, and found a jazz station. The rain poured down on them, and he drove in silence, listening to the symphony of gentle snores, and a saxophone.

"Mycroft." A gentle shake, and a whisper in the sleeping man's ear jostled him from his slumber. "Mycroft. Wake up."

Mycroft's eyes opened and he stared groggily about, his neck aching from the awkward position it had been held in before. "What?" He blinked rapidly and looked over to find Gregory's face quite close to his. With a slight jerk, Mycroft's heart slammed against his ribcage, flip flopping wildly for a reason what could not be completely explained away by shock. "What is it?" He asked again, licking his lips. How long had he been asleep for? He hadn't expected to zone out that quickly or that thoroughly.

"We're here." Greg was leaning in the passenger side door, and he reached across Mycroft to grab the two bags in the back seat. He straightened, tossing his head towards a small hotel, dark and quiet in the middle of the night. "I checked us in already, but there's no dinner to be had tonight. Come on, let's get some sleep." He turned and shuffled to the modest inn, carrying his own bag, and his companion's.

Mycroft followed at a distance, still trying to rationalise his sudden reaction to Gregory's proximity. Lack of sleep, shock, and disorientation, he finally decided. Those three things could have produced the symptoms in the right situations, even for him. They walked into the small hotel, and he continued to follow Gregory, not saying a word until they reached the room. Then Mycroft frowned. "Just the one room." He said with a lifted eyebrow. There were no signs of another set of keys, and given the lateness of the evening, they had most likely been lucky to even get a room. Still... it wasn't optimal.

"Two beds." Greg dropped the bags on the floor, and without bothering to undress, he threw himself in the closest single bed, his face buried in the fluffy feather pillow. He did like these old places... they may be small and unassuming, but the accommodations were clean, and comfortable. He did not even sit up, but lay there, breathing in the scent of the fresh cotton, and he toed off his shoes and socks. Mycroft still hadn't moved from the door. Greg's hand began to pat at the table next to him, and he flipped off the lamp, groaning. That was better. "Goodnight," he mumbled, letting his bones sink into the mattress.

Shaking himself from the horror of having to share a room, Mycroft crossed the floor and sat gingerly down on the bed, thankful for the near complete dark. On the other bed he could see the outline of Gregory's body, his back rising and falling as he lay face first on the pillows. A tiny, unnoticed smile settled on Mycroft's lips as he removed his shoes, socks, jacket, and waistcoat. It took him only a half a second to decide that no matter how inconvenient it would be, sleeping in pyjamas was the only way to spend a night alone in bed but with another person in the room. He picked up the bag he'd dropped by his bed and rummaged through it, lying out his clothing for the next day before hurrying to the loo to change. Once clad in his favourite pair of white silk pyjamas, Mycroft performed his nightly rituals, keeping his mind off the sound of heavy breathing in the next room. Instead he focused on Sherlock's predicament. How could his younger brother have gotten himself in that situation? The answer, of course, was easily. Sherlock meddled. He shook his head and shut the light off, practically scampering to his bed and crawling under the covers. Sherlock was a foolish man.

Mycroft's hurried scramble to his bed stirred the sleeping inspector, but he only muttered something incoherent, popped his head up blearily, and then was asleep once more. He did not wake again until the next morning, when the phone lying on the table began to buzz loudly. Greg shot up with the panicked, sleepy expression of a man who is unsure where he is, what day it is, and if he'd possibly just missed an important deadline. He grabbed at the mobile, his throat scratchy and dry as he barked out a hasty greeting. "Hello?" He rubbed his eyes furiously, feeling grubby and disgusting. Why the hell hadn't he changed last night? Why hadn't he at least brushed his teeth? Why was he so hungry?

And why the fuck was the man on the other end of the phone bellowing with laughter? "Who is this?" Greg growled, but at that moment, his jeans pocket began to beep: his morning alarm. He stared down at himself in confusion... then his eyes widened. He was on Mycroft's phone. He glanced at the slender man in the next bed, still snoring.

Mycroft vaguely registered the mayhem behind him. With a groan he rolled over and reached a hand out, patting around the table, looking for whatever was making that noise so he could break it and return to his slumber. Then he opened his eyes. Oh yes. That was right. "What are you doing on my phone?" He asked, his voice still thick with sleep. Gregory was staring at him as though he'd never seen him before. What was wrong with the man? Mycroft's eyes narrowed a little. "What?" He snapped, propping himself up on an elbow. He didn't like the way Lestrade was watching him. It made him feel uncomfortably, vulnerable, exposed.

Greg shut his mouth tight before he could ask the question that was burning in his skull. What the hell sort of man slept in white shiny pyjamas? The answer was right in front of him anyway... the sort that ran the bloody country. He handed the phone to Mycroft without a word, his face red as he heard the guffawing continue. Damn. That was no doubt one of Mycroft's assistants, a jovial Irish enforcer. How Mycroft would explain Greg's obviously sleepy presence in his rooms... would be difficult. He stood, grabbing his things and rushing into the loo before he could embarrass himself any further.

Mycroft heard the laughter and rolled his eyes heavenward. Good lord. "Be quiet this instant." He said in a low, dangerous tone. The laughter stopped and his assistant, Morgan, began to talk. Half listening to the conversation, half watching the loo door, Mycroft slowly sat up and tucked his legs underneath him in what was undoubtedly a very undignified position, but a comfortable one never the less. He leaned against the headboard and continued to listen to Morgan's report, his eyes closed. "Yes, that will be fine." He finally said, plucking at the sheets for lack of anything better to do. "And if he doesn't talk that way then use your usual methods. You know I have every faith in you, Morgan. You are one of my best men." In fact... it suddenly occurred to Mycroft that he could have taken Morgan with and been quite fine. But somehow... somehow he much rather preferred Lestrade's slightly stiff and silent company to that of his jovial, talkative Irish assistant. "Do not finish the job. I would like him in good enough condition to hold a semi-intelligent conversation." The Irishman agreed, then there was a pause, as though he wanted to ask what Lestrade had been doing answering his phone. "That will be all, Morgan." Mycroft said firmly, then hung up.

Greg's shower was over far too quickly. He dressed, shaved, and combed his silver hair, and as he did, he listened to Mycroft's quiet, unintelligible murmurs in the next room. Only when he was sure that the man had ended his phone conversation did he venture out once more, freshly washed and in clean, though wrinkled, clothes. "Breakfast?" he asked, stuffing his laundry into his bag without meeting the turquoise eyes. Shit, that had been embarrassing.

"Yes," Mycroft answered, standing up and collecting his things. "I will meet you down in the lobby." Hurrying past the detective inspector, Mycroft darted into the loo and shut the door quietly behind him. Shower, shave, food. He nodded to himself and undressed. This whole trip was becoming more inconvenient than he'd anticipated.

To Mycroft's dismay, the water turned cold before he had time to do anything but wash his hair. It reminded him why he hated staying in such places. Dressing swiftly, the elder Holmes brother looked himself in the mirror and sighed. He had lost weight, yes, that was a good thing, but he looked tired and worn out. It simply would not do. The lines under his eyes were becoming visible, and his skin had taken on the pallor of a sickly person who had not seen the sun in months. He snorted humourlessly and began to comb his hair. It had been a lot longer than a few months since he'd been able to relax in the sun. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd been able to really relax. The nation would not let him.

Once out of the loo, Mycroft set his bag down on the bed and removed his waistcoat. He wasn't about to wear it on the long journey ahead. They still had at least ten hours in the car, and he would be uncomfortable enough without adding a tie, waistcoat, and jacket.

By the time Mycroft made his way downstairs, Greg was already halfway through a massive English breakfast. He looked up from the table where he was entertaining the rest of the guests with stories of Scotland Yard, and he met Mycroft's bright blue eyes. Greg grinned broadly at the sight of him. Mycroft was wearing linen trousers and a cotton shirt with the first button undone, and for the first time since they'd met, Grey thought he looked human. "Come on!" he called out, gesturing to an empty seat at the table. "Have some breakfast, and hurry! We have to catch the ferry." Greg winked at him, and shoved another spoonful of pudding in his mouth.

Mycroft took the seat opposite Gregory and ordered a croissant and a bowl of fruit. He didn't eat breakfast. Never had the time for it, and over the years his stomach had grown accustomed to the lack of food, so now it would rebel if he tried to eat more than a very light meal. "We should be in Italy by 5 o'clock tonight." He said, accepting the coffee their server brought to them. "I am not sure how long the negotiations will last, but hopefully I will have the problem worked out by 10 which will give us enough time to get back before you work. Maybe you will even be able to sleep in your own bed tomorrow night." He smiled a little at that and dumped milk and sugar into his coffee, stirring it vigorously.

Greg looked down at his black coffee, and back up at Mycroft's mess of saccharine and dairy. "Well. You're going to be fun later," he muttered, polishing off the last of his scones.


	2. Strange Things Can Happen When On A Ferry

The drive to the ferry was a lovely one, and for once, Greg found himself relaxing in the presence of the man who too frequently represented strain and stress for him. He pointed out landmarks, and admired the scenery, and Mycroft even made a little conversation in return. It was pleasant. When their drive took them along the shoreline, Greg rolled down the window, letting the ocean air fill his lungs and ruffle his hair. "Hell," he said with a smile, his eyes sliding shut as the sun beat down on his tanned skin. "Gorgeous day."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft watched Gregory's smile widen. He watched as the sunlight cast a glow around the tan skin, causing the silvery hair to shine with startling vibrancy. He noted how the strong hands held the door as Gregory leaned out a little. The detective inspector had let his guard down now, and was pointing at different areas of interest with an enthusiastic air. He reminded Mycroft of a dog with his head in the wind, and that wasn't something he had ever thought of before. Yes, Gregory had always been loyal, but the loyalty was never to him. Mycroft knew that Gregory did what he wanted because it usually always had good intentions for Sherlock. By this time the smile had slipped stealthily back on Mycroft's face as he turned his full attention to the road once more, slowing down just a tad so that his companion could enjoy the scenery better. It was, after all, a gorgeous day.

The rolling landscape opened out to meet them with rich colours. Different shades of green covered the hills, the sky a brilliant blue, almost cloudless. In the open air bird song was to be heard, and a rabbit darted out across the fields. "I used to go to Italy quite often in my university days." Mycroft said suddenly, resting one arm on the window sill as he easily maneuvered along the road. "It is a beautiful country."

Greg's dark eyes followed the scampering hare across the grass, and he reached over, flipping on the radio. "Do you mind?" he asked, turning it up a little and letting his head fall back as the soft jazz filled the space between them. The wind was fragrant, and his body was relaxed, comfortable, surprisingly so considering his company. Then again, he'd never seen Mycroft away from the office, and hell if he didn't seem almost human. His chestnut hair was flyaway in the breeze, his fingers were loose on the steering wheel, and he almost had a smile on the noble, arrogant face. Greg watched him curiously, his toes tapping to the lilting beat. "Can't imagine it, you know," he said after several minutes of silence, broken only by the saxophone and piano. Mycroft glanced over at him in confusion, and Greg smiled lopsidedly, tossing his chin at him. "You in uni. Bet you were the prize pupil. Not like Sherlock.. you were the good one, weren't you?"

Mycroft snorted a little at that, his eyebrows raised in amusement. "The good one..." He mused for a few moments, a smirk playing around the edges of his lips. "Well, I had my fair share of shady dealings. I was just more tactful than Sherlock. I like to play about in the shadows, but for my brother it will forever be his lot to have the sun shine down on his life." Mycroft glanced over at his companion and rolled his eyes. "He will forever be in the spotlight no matter what he does. Sherlock brings drama with him wherever he goes. No, I wasn't 'the good one'; I was simply quieter about things. And had a wider range of curiosity." He could see the questioning look in Gregory's face, but decided to wait for specific questions, if they came at all. The car was silent but for the soft music and the gentle breeze ghosting through the open windows. Mycroft sat back comfortably in his car and was glad he'd decided to wear his canvas shoes and not the usual leather.

Greg nodded, his smile stretching wider as he gazed out at the scenery, his tanned arm resting on the window. Mycroft was a man of few words, but he chose them carefully, and Greg had learned long ago that when Mycroft Holmes spoke, it was wise to listen. He began to hum along with the song on the radio, an old standard that had been written before even he was born. "You don't mind the music, do you?" he asked, more out of courtesy than anything. Knowing the Holmes boys, they probably only listened to symphonies, or operas, or such.

Mycroft shook his head. "This song is a favourite of mine." He answered, then, gesturing to the glove compartment, he continued. "If you like there are CDs in there. I prefer to keep a hard copy of my favourite musicians' music. I find MP3 players, though useful, to be somewhat time consuming." He shrugged a little. Coming up on their left was the ferry. Mycroft turned the car down a narrow road and continued on toward the little stop. "Ah, finally." He pulled up and looked over at the detective inspector. "I will only be a few moments." With that he got out and walked to the small wooden building near the dock.

Greg watched him go. He studied the man's back as he stood in front of the ticket window, purchasing the fare, and his eyes traveled up and down Mycroft's body. He looked.. different. Very different. In London, surrounded by opulence and affairs of state, Mycroft Holmes was unapproachable, and indeed, almost unlikeable. He was cold, demanding, unpleasant, and a thorn in Lestrade's side. But right here, right now, the man was just an ordinary bloke who liked jazz, made decent conversation, and was absolutely the sort of person Greg could have a few drinks with. He wondered to himself about the difference one's surroundings made in attitude, and he wondered also if Mycroft felt the same about him. He knew how he came across at work.. he was a no nonsense bloke, and sometimes, he saw his men rolling their eyes behind his back. Well that was fine. He got the job done, didn't he? And if he had to kiss Mycroft's tight arse to do it, well, he'd do that, too. Damn it. He looked at his arse when he thought it. Greg flushed a little, now rolling his own eyes at himself, and he settled back on the seat, turning the radio up. Maybe he should try to sleep some more. He hated to do that; even if he was to lose out on some sleep the next few days, he didn't want to miss the lovely scenery. By which, of course, he meant the ocean and the grassy meadows and the trees... not Mycroft's arse.

Completely oblivious to the stares of his companion, Mycroft was typing quietly on his mobile while he waited for the man to finish the transaction. Normally the elder Holmes brother hated to text, much preferring to just have the damn conversation, but in this case he did not want to risk being overheard, and Morgan was in need of more orders. He ground his teeth a little at the disturbance, pocketed his phone, and turned around to find Gregory pointedly not looking at him. He frowned slightly, but pushed it to the back of his mind. Surely it was none of his business what the man thought. They were not close, they were merely acquaintances. Gregory was Sherlock's friend first and foremost, and Mycroft knew how Sherlock's friends viewed him. If it weren't for his position in life, Mycroft was quite sure Lestrade would tell him to sod off. With gravel crunching under foot, Mycroft made his way back to the car and slid in. "It will take a little over an hour to get there." He said to the detective, starting the engine. Another car pulled in behind them, and Mycroft drove around to a ramp, ignoring the two other cars that were already on the ferry. "We may stop one more night in Italy so as not to find John and Sherlock in the middle of, ah, shall we say nocturnal activities." Mycroft wrinkled his nose.

Greg chuckled, nodding his agreement, and as they pulled onto the huge boat, finding a quiet, secluded corner to park the car, he turned to Mycroft, fixing him with a narrow eye. "Can I ask you something?" he said, and continued before the elder Holmes brother could refuse. "How... did you feel about... you know. Them?" Greg was genuinely curious. He'd not known how to act, how to feel, what to do, when he first learned of the shifting relationship between Sherlock Holmes and his live in blogger. The doctor had seemed so... normal. Not that being gay wasn't normal.. Greg had a good friend from uni that had turned out to be gay, and he was all right with it. But hell, John liked birds, always had. That was, until he and Sherlock began shagging like wild animals. And now, fuck, he couldn't even leave them alone for five minutes at a crime scene! And he'd always been curious as to how Mycroft dealt with it. Greg knew from experience that Mycroft was sorely protective of his younger brother. He'd faced the wrath of Mycroft Holmes before, when Greg was trying to help Sherlock get clean. It was never enough, never fast enough, never good enough for Mycroft. If Sherlock was hurting... Mycroft was hurting. It was one of the qualities Greg always admired most about the man. Seeing how John ravaged him must have driven him mad, for John DID ravage him. One or both of the men was constantly bruised, and seemed bloody thrilled about it.

Mycroft did not answer for several minutes, he did not answer while he drove to a parking spot, he didn't answer when he shut the engine off, until finally, looking out the window at the vast silvery water of the English Channel, he spoke. "At first I did not like it. I wanted to send John in pieces to different parts of the earth, but now..." He sighed and let his hand rest on a thigh. "Now I am very happy that Sherlock has found someone who is so completely devoted to him. John has elevated him on many different levels, and perhaps has brought him down a few pegs from a spot where he viewed himself as quite omnipotent." Mycroft's eyes twinkled a little as he looked over at Lestrade. "Now he only views himself as almost omnipotent."

Greg burst out laughing, and guffawed long and hard, his head thrown back. Mycroft began to chuckle as well next to him, and they sat in the car on the ferry, laughing together for several minutes. At last, Lestrade settled down, shaking his head and clapping Mycroft on the shoulder with his brown, rough hand. "That," he said with a brilliant smile, "was unexpected. Come on, let's walk on deck." He let himself out of the car, stretching his long legs, and he stood, waiting for Mycroft patiently.

Mycroft followed suit, rising from the car and rolling his head from side to side, releasing muscles tensed from hours of driving. This entire trip was becoming... unexpected. Gregory was really proving to be worth his salt, in a manner of speaking. The elder Holmes brother had not expected to enjoy his company quite this much. In fact he had expected Lestrade to be out of humour the entire journey, only communicating in short sentences and grunts. It was a pleasant surprise.

The two men strolled along the deck in comfortable silence, the breeze light and refreshing on their faces. At some point Mycroft rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, leaning against the rail and gazing across the calm water. "It really is a beautiful day." He said after quite a long time, watching as a bird flew overhead, throwing a shadow across his face. "I can't remember the last time I was on a ship. It is... relaxing."

"Yeah. Wish I had a cigarette." Greg shrugged his jacket off and leaned on the railing next to him, turning his forearm up. A round patch sat at the crux of his elbow, and he looked over at the other man ruefully. "Still wearing them. Can't seem to ever shake it completely." He sighed, working his jaw a little as he gazed out over the water. It had been ages since he was on the ocean. Where the hell did time go? He should be doing this every month, taking a small weekend holiday to the beach, bringing one of his mates, drinking, sleeping in, breathing in the salty air... Greg took a deep breath. Bloody hell, he'd even come with Mycroft. If they could leave London behind, it really wasn't half bad. The wind picked up, bringing Mycroft's sandalwood cologne with it, and he inhaled the scent deeply. He felt... suddenly fond of the man. Always watching out for Sherlock. Always sacrificing for queen and country. Never relaxed, never happy, never at ease. Greg watched as a gull swooped down, snapping at a fish. "So," he murmured, trying to sound casual. "Are you and Anthea..."

Mycroft gave him a startled look and began to laugh, long and hearty until he gasped for breath, wiping at the corners of his eyes. "I... I am sorry. It was just so unexpected." He tried to placate the detective inspector's affronted look, patting his forearm lightly. "Anthea is not the type to remain in a steady relationship. As far as I know she has several casual flings and a few people she has an agreement with. I am not now, nor have ever been one of those people." He extended his arms out, leaning on the rail, his body bent slightly at the waist. "My love life," here he grimaced a little at the words, "has been uneventful for nearly... ten years. Generally speaking I am not 'dating' material." Mycroft was silent then, thinking. Dating material. Hell, he hadn't thought of going out with someone in years. Work, his family, life got in the way. Women weren't interested in him, and he did not have the time, nor the inclination, really. He hadn't found anyone who turned his head since university, and even that had been short lived. "I have not had the time to even consider letting loose. No one besides myself could put up with my schedule. Trust me." Mycroft's impassive face broke a little, turning somewhat wry. No one would be able to stand how many hours he worked. After all, when was he not on duty?

"Yeah, don't suppose they could." Greg held up his left hand and wriggled the fingers at Mycroft, showcasing the pale band of skin that had once been sheltered from the sun by his wedding ring. The naked finger stood out from the rest, an odd, constant reminder of his failed marriage. He sighed, pursing his lips at the ocean as the ferry slowly pulled out of dock, its movements smooth and unhurried. He felt strangely relieved that Mycroft was not sleeping with Anthea. Aside from the obvious squick factor... Mycroft WAS her boss, and twice her age... he felt as if this man deserved better than some efficient shag, business like and professional, beautiful, and cold. Greg contemplated their options, lifting his eyebrows at the other man with a little smirk. "Well," he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "If we wrap up the business with your brother quickly, we could find a couple of pretty Italian girls. Bring them back to the hotel. Might as well mix business with pleasure." He winked, laughing, but he was only half joking. He didn't like to think how long it had been for him, and Mycroft... ten years was far, far too long to go without a shag.

Mycroft snorted at the pure absurdity of the idea. "I have had quite enough meaningless sex in my lifetime to know that there is more to be lost than gained when it comes to bringing home someone for the purpose of drunken shagging, because, to be brutally honest, most people would not jump into my bed on the first night. It would take a long, tedious amount of time in which I could show of the good points of my character, of which I have constantly been reminded that I severely lack." He flexed his jaw a little, an old wound opening slightly as he thought of the one woman he had grown to be very fond of. Twisting the ring on his right hand, Mycroft shook his head. "I do not have the time for a quick lay." That was all he needed to say. That was all he should have said. He didn't understand why he was talking so much to the detective inspector. It wasn't natural. It wasn't right. Mycroft just wasn't supposed to BE this open. He knew it. He knew he ought to be the "ice man" once more.

"Oh." Greg found his feet to be suddenly very interesting. He felt.. a great fool. He'd been practically scolded, and now, he felt as if his father had risen from the dead to shame him once more for shagging the neighbor's daughter. Mycroft was right, of course. He was no teenager, and he knew better than to pick up some meaningless shag from a pub. He'd refrained from that very thing for years, despite the fact that his sex life was finished, far before the divorce came through. He shifted uncomfortably, exhaling. No, he wasn't a teenager, but he WAS a man, and he was randy, damn it. His job didn't leave time for much more than a casual shag, or wanking. Lestrade always chose the latter. Perhaps it was the sea air getting to him. Perhaps that was why he'd said such a damned foolish thing.

He didn't speak again, but just leaned on the railing, enjoying the view as they made their way slowly to the continent, away from England, away from his job, his flat. He shuffled eventually to a deck chair, throwing himself in it and closing his eyes. The sun beat down on him, and Greg drifted off.

Mycroft felt like an arse. He knew he'd hurt Gregory's feelings, though he had not been trying. He watched the man from the corner of his eye for a long time before leaving. The ride was getting tiresome now, and Mycroft wanted nothing more than to be done with the whole damn trip. He wanted to be back at his home, or at his desk. Not here on a damn boat with the hot sun beating down on his neck. Why the hell did Sherlock have to cause such problems for him? Why the hell did his little brother have to get himself into these situations? Why the hell did he feel so damn bad about the look of shame on Lestrade's face after they'd finished talking? Mycroft growled and walked back to the car, throwing himself in the seat. This was why he tried to avoid human contact on a personal level. Pretending to be friendly was one thing, actually beginning to get invested was another entirely. It was a rookie mistake, and Mycroft hated that he'd made it. It had to be those brown eyes. Somehow they looked at him, like a beaten puppy, and he felt himself chattering on trying not to stare. It was ridiculous. He should have brought Morgan instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! The plot thickens! Thank you all for reading! Please, please, please review! They are our life blood. Our cure-all! Our Phoenix Down for when we are down! They're addicting.


	3. The Daunting Questionnaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory and Mycroft have a very strange conversation during their very, very long road trip.

Greg was woken unceremoniously by the blasting of the ferry horn, announcing their imminent arrival. He staggered to his feet, blinking sleepily, his head rotating. "Mycroft?" The other man was nowhere to be seen. Greg grunted, trudging down the stairs to the car deck, and he made his way to the gorgeous black town car, yawning and stretching his limbs. He scratched his stomach, fumbling for the door handle. Sure enough, there he was. Greg let himself in, grumbling under his breath. He wanted to stretch out. "I'm hungry," he complained, jumping a little when the ferry jolted as it docked. "I need some lunch."

Mycroft looked up from his phone and set it down quietly, his chest constricting when he saw Gregory's face. "I am sure we will be able to find suitable accommodations." He put his hands on the steering wheel and was silent as the detective inspector made himself comfortable. After all, the babbling debacle had quite soured him on conversations. At least ones where he spearheaded the topic, especially when the topic was his sex life or anything close to it. Mycroft didn't want to think of his sex life, especially not when Gregory was around. The man was positively oozing with charisma; he had a great smile and a very good disposition, plus he was loyal and very, very attractive. Mycroft wondered if he'd ever seen eyes that brown before. Not that he was really looking. He winced a little at his earlier train of thought. Gregory Lestrade was, in other words, a practically perfect man who, if so inclined, could find some stranger to hop into his bed at a moment's notice. Not that Mycroft was really interested in that sort of thing anymore, but the evidence was right there. Lestrade was a fine specimen of the homo sapien species. He could have anyone. Anyone at all.

Lestrade frowned a little at the coolness in Mycroft's tone, but he shrugged it off. Maybe he was seasick. Greg certainly was eager to get off of the floating barge. He drummed his fingers on the car door, rolled down his window again, and stuck his head out like a cocker spaniel, shouting abuse at the other drivers as they all began to inch their way off the ferry at the same time. Once back on the road, he attempted conversation again, but it was half hearted, because Mycroft was tight lipped. Gone was the casual comfort of the morning; it was as if the earlier Mycroft had been low on batteries, and now, someone had charged him up. He was stiff and snobbish once more. Greg discovered after several tries that he was getting only one syllable answers to his pathetic attempts, and so an idea occurred to him. He turned to face the other man, leaning back against his door, his silver hair fluttering in the warm breeze. "Hey, you know what I was thinking?" he asked, not expecting an answer, and not getting one. "I was thinking that I've been working for you.. with you... for close to ten years now, and I don't know a damned thing about you. That's a tragedy, don't you think?" He kept his tone light, but his dark eyes were hard, and mischievous. "What's your favourite colour?"

Mycroft glanced over at Gregory suspiciously, but no matter how many times he ran the variables in his head he could see no problem with answering the simple question. "Red." He answered tersely, keeping his eyes straight on the road. What was Gregory up to? What reason could he possibly have for asking Mycroft's favourite colour? It was a useless piece of information.

"Red, why red?" Greg settled back even further, one knee drawn up to his chest, his legs splayed in the front.

Again, Mycroft ran all the possible reasons Gregory could have for asking the question, pondered on all the answers and their consequences, but could find none objectionable enough not to answer. "I do not know. I suppose it is a very authorative colour, I simply like the way it looks. I like the different hues and shades." He tried to answer it simply enough, not to divulge whatever secret Gregory wanted to find.

"Authorative." Greg repeated the word, smiling a little to himself. That made.. perfect sense. He nodded, indicating the radio with his finger. "You said you liked jazz. What other music do you like? Pop? Soul? R&B? Hip hop? New age? Oldies?"

"Eclectic." Mycroft answered mechanically, forcing himself not to look at the man sitting next to him. "Mostly jazz, swing, classical. I enjoy a good opera. Blues." He shrugged and tightened his grip on the wheel. "It depends."

"You surprise me, Mycroft." Greg said it matter-of-factly, and smiled when the other man glanced at him, eyes widening a little. He studied him curiously, smirking. The plan was working. Mycroft was talking... a little. More than grunts, anyway. "All right. Favourite book, movie, and article of clothing."

"I have many favourite books, so it is rather difficult to choose one among them. I am very fond of Oscar Wilde. I appreciate his flippant writing, and I admire the authoritative and mocking view he has on society. I think that my favourite would be The Portrait of Mr WH. I find the theory to be interesting, and when I have enough time I should like to read more on the actual subject. I don't have time to watch films, but I am fond of The Godfather, one and two specifically, and, though I do not have a favourite article of clothing, I like my waistcoat." Mycroft mulled the questions over, trying to think of some ulterior motive Lestrade could have asking these silly questions, but he could not think of a single one. It seemed... rather innocent, and because it appeared to be innocent it had to mean there was something sinister going on.

"You like The Godfather movies?" Greg sat up straight now, his face lighting up. Now THIS was seriously unprecedented! Mycroft Holmes, liking The Godfather! But... as he gazed at the narrow face, the hawk like nose and pointed chin, he realized that this, like everything else, made sense. It all made sense. Mycroft was a human being, albeit a complicated and mysterious one. And this... getting to know him... was rather fun. Lestrade grinned, leaning in closer, conspiratorially. "The first two are the best. Always liked Fight Club meself. seen Road to Perdition? That's a good one. When was your first kiss?" The words all ran together, so that Mycroft had to blink a few times before he heard the question at the end.

Mycroft's jaw set a little, but he relaxed. What was the harm in speaking of that? No harm. It was pointless, trivial information. "Fifteen." He answered calmly, chancing a glance at his companion. Gregory was staring at him with interest, leaning forward, a half smile on his face. Perhaps he was really just interested in the answers. Mycroft could read no ulterior motive.

"Who was she?" Greg was flabbergasted. He'd answered. He'd answered without hesitation, or any sign of discomfort. The detective inspector was pleased. He stared at the pale face, but a sudden icy hand closed over his heart for an instant. There he went, being insensitive again. He stammered a moment, coughing. "Um.. or he," he added lamely, grimacing a bit. He really had to be better about these things, now that Sherlock and John were snogging around every corner. It was distinctly possible that Mycroft preferred the gents as well. Hell, maybe that was why he'd shot him down so quickly on the ferry! Greg wanted to slap himself.

"She was my physics tutor, though I knew more about the subject than she did." Mycroft couldn't help but feel a little smug at the startled expression on Gregory's face. "She was twenty-four years old and her name was Lizbet Clearwater." He took one hand from the wheel and rested his elbow on the window sill, silent once more, waiting to hear the next question Gregory had to offer.

That one stumped Greg for several seconds. Then... "You bastard!" Greg punched him lightly in the shoulder, but it was still hard enough to make the thin man veer a little on the road. Greg crowed, turning round in his seat and kicking back, his hands behind his head as he eyes Mycroft with a leering grin. "Shagged her too, didn't you, you SOB?"

Mycroft grabbed hold of himself, still startled by the sudden outbreak of joyful camaraderie. "No, before I got the chance her family was suddenly located to Central America." That wiped the smile off of Gregory's face. The smug feeling returned and Mycroft was silent once more.

Greg scowled, cocking his head at the man. "Your mum?" he asked quietly. Oh, yes. He knew Dame Holmes. He knew she was a first class bitch on wheels. He knew what had happened without even having to ask. The grand Dame had learned of Mycroft's innocent indiscretion, and had relocated an entire family in order to preserve her eldest son's chastity. Bloody bitch. He studied his feet, sympathy welling in his chest for poor teenage Mycroft Holmes, never allowed a moment of freedom, never allowed normality and weakness.

"It was for the best. Foolish, youthful infatuations only lead to tears." Mycroft glanced at his hands and then turned his attention back to the road, suddenly wishing he had just lied and said he had shagged Lizbet. The quiet was almost unnerving.

Greg seemed to understand. More levity was in order. "Ever go to a dance?" he asked suddenly, turning the radio on again and tapping his toes merrily against the floorboard. Once more he leered at Mycroft, leaning in close, his white teeth flashing. "Did you slow dance with a young girl with puffed sleeves and terrible hair?" He laughed, trying desperately to picture stoic Mycroft in a three piece powder blue tuxedo, dancing beneath a disco ball with a wraith covered in pink taffeta.

"That would be Heidi." One corner of Mycroft's lips turned up as he remembered the fragile looking girl who had been a champion at roller derby during her life in the states. He had rather liked her. "Heidi Caan embodied the entire style. Hair, clothes, makeup, attitude." He shook his head and sighed. "She and her brother introduced me to a whole new world." The elder Holmes brother tapped his fingers along the steering wheel, accelerating just a tad.

"Did you shag her?" Greg persisted, and the landscape sped by. He was enjoying himself, and Mycroft... Mycroft was smiling again. "Come on," he prodded, elbowing the man. "First shag, out with it, out with it, man."

"Yes, I did." He admitted, throwing a glance Lestrade's way. Had the sun always made his hair shine like that? Probably. "My first time, however, was with a young woman named Vivian Lindsey. I was almost sixteen. Heidi was a few months after that." Mycroft's eyes clouded for a few moments. He had his fair share of sexual encounters, though his youth somewhat dominated his adult life in the amount of conquests.

Greg nodded, and was quiet then, just watching his face as the tall, proud man sped down the streets. After a few moments, Mycroft looked at him sidelong, his expression confused. The questions had stopped. Greg met his gaze serenely, a small smile on his lips, his eyes warm. He didn't say anything, but watched him still, brown eyes lidded.

Mycroft told himself he didn't care why Gregory had stopped asking questions. He told himself that the man simply was no longer interested, that he'd gleaned all the information he wished for and had no more use for conversation. So why was he looking at him like that? Silent and almost smug. Mycroft knew he hadn't given anything important away, hadn't left himself open to any sort attack. So why the look of satisfaction? Why the slight curl of the thin, soft lips? Soft lips? Oh god. Mycroft's gut clenched and his knuckles turned white. Oh god. This trip had to end soon. He was not attracted to Gregory Lestrade. There was absolutely no way. It was all the reminders of his past. All the suppressed urges trying to come out. Well he wouldn't let them. He didn't have time to be acting like an imbecile simply because he hadn't had a fuck in ten years. It was unthinkable.

When Mycroft began to look extremely uncomfortable, Greg turned back to his window, sighing peacefully. "Thank you," he mumbled, resting his chin on his outstretched forearm, the wind ruffling his hair and whipping it about. "That's the most you've ever said to me."

"That's the most you've asked." Mycroft said simply.

A few minutes later they entered a small town and Mycroft stopped by the first eatery he saw, remembering that Gregory had said he was hungry. "Go in and eat," he nodded to the building and began to push back the seat of his car. "I'm going to rest a little before we continue." It was already mid-day and he felt drained. This was going to be a dreadfully long trip.

The inspector pushed his door open, glancing back at the thin man next to him. "You're not going to eat?" he asked cautiously, frowning a bit. "It's been ages since breakfast. Want me to get you something?" The smell wafting from the little cafe was heavenly. Hell, he hoped they had a decent sandwich. "I can drive for a while, if you want to sleep or eat on the road."

Mycroft shook his head, taking sunglasses from a compartment near the seat and putting them over his eyes, the aviators effectively blocking out the worst of the rays. "I'll get crisps later when I'm hungry. I seldom eat while travelling." He folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes, waiting for Gregory to leave him in peace. "Don't rush, but do remember the time constraints." The elder Holmes brother shifted about in the fully reclined seat and stifled a yawn. For some reason Gregory was still sitting, half suspended in an incomplete motion. It would have been amusing if Mycroft had not been so tired. He propped himself up on one elbow and pushed the glasses up to his forehead. "What is it?"

Greg blinked in the bright sun, unsure of what to say, as he was unsure why he sat there, perched like some awkward bird on the passenger seat. "Nothing," he muttered at last, and swung his body from the car with ease. The door slammed, and he strode into the cafe, his hands searching his pockets for his wallet and sunglasses. He'd get his sandwich to go, and eat it on the way. The sooner they reached their destination, the better. He was beginning to worry over Mycroft's health, and that was a concern for Anthea. Not Gregory Lestrade.

Mycroft leaned back and sighed, returning the sunglasses to their previous spot on the bridge of his nose. It took only a few minutes for sleep to wander along, and soon he was lightly napping, one ear open for any unusual sounds. The warm sun beat down on his body, warming him to the soul, creating a relaxing, lazy effect. Lethargy was a luxury in the life of Mycroft Holmes, and when it came around he clung to it desperately. Indeed, it almost got to the point where he completely forgot why he was napping in his car in the middle of France. He almost forgot he was waiting for Gregory and not some phantom companion who cared for him deeply. Almost. But he would not be Mycroft Holmes if he completely forgot. The nagging reality was still there, even in his blissful dreaming state. It was always there. So minutes passed by in a sluggish, comfortable fashion, and Mycroft slept, a slight smile on his lips as he waited for Gregory to come out of the bistro.

Greg was in and out of the cafe in less than twenty-five minutes. Mycroft did not wake until he was fully seated in the car once more, and the door snapped shut loudly, jarring him from his fitful slumber. The turquoise eyes fluttered, focusing eventually on a smiling, tan face mere inches away. "Coffee." Lestrade held up a cup, and in his hands, he held a bag of sea salt crisps. "The coffee is good," he offered, pushing the warm cup into Mycroft's hands. "Didn't know what sort of sandwich to get for you, so I just got the crisps." He unwrapped his own lunch, a plump curried chicken salad sandwich, and he took a large bite, washing it down with the excellent, hot coffee.

Mycroft sniffed the coffee suspiciously, but then smiled a little as he smelled the sugar and milk mingling with the scent of coffee. So Gregory had noticed how he took his coffee. "Ah, sucrose," he murmured appreciatively, "one of my favourite disaccharides." He sighed gratefully and sipped at the drink, enjoying the way the warm liquid slid down his throat. It was decent coffee. "Thank you. You didn't have to." With a swift movement, Mycroft removed his sunglasses and set them back in their compartment, easing the seat upright once more. "On then." Carefully resting the cup in a holder, he pulled out of the parking lot, feeling much better for the nap and the drink. It had not been expected, but it was a pleasant surprise.

Greg opened the bag of crisps and placed them conspicuously within Mycroft's reach. They traveled in silence for several minutes, the dark eyes sliding once every few seconds to the driver, and at last, when Mycroft made no move towards the snack, Greg huffed and plucked a crisp from the bag, crunching on it enthusiastically. "These are damned good." He waited. No response. The road stretched out before them, beautifully framed with the green rolling hills of France, and Greg nudged the bag gently. "Eat," he said. Mycroft wrinkled his nose. The detective inspector sighed deeply, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared over at the man. "You know," he said lowly, "Sherlock's wrong about you. He's a petulant child is all. You aren't overweight, Mycroft. You barely eat anything."

A deep flush rose to Mycroft's cheeks and his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "That... had not even crossed my mind." He replied sharply, his jaw clenching. Had it been so obvious? No. It had not been. No one except Sherlock had the slightest inclination what went through his head, and Sherlock only had the foggiest of clues because he was his brother. "I told you I don't eat during trips. That is all." He took another drink of his coffee and once more cursed his decision to bring Lestrade along. "Furthermore, I know who and what my brother is. His comments have never bothered me before, nor shall they in the future." A lie, yes, but a very, very good one. Such a good one that he himself almost believed it.

After all, he'd been telling it to himself for years.

"Suit yourself." Greg picked up the bag of crisps and began to eat them with relish, despite the fact that he'd just polished off an enormous sandwich. He hummed to himself for a few minutes, looking out the window, enjoying Mycroft's obvious discomfort, and as soon as the thin shoulders relaxed a little, he piped up once more. "Because if it were me, that would get on my last nerve. Your brother, I mean. The constant bickering, the insults, the pouting snide comments... He's a right bastard, your brother. I like him, so help me. But he is. And if you're not going to eat during trips, then I should drive, because you're pale enough already. Can't have you passing out on me." Greg winked at him, and pushed an entire, large crisp into his mouth, his tongue flattening against the rough, salty surface.

Mycroft's eyes instinctively followed the detective inspector's mouth move, watched the way it closed around the crisp with relish. "I don't pass out." He said stiffly, directing his gaze once more to the winding road ahead. Then, after a while, he spoke again. "Sherlock is not a bastard." It was a quiet voice, but steely all the same. He did not care if it was Gregory, or if it was a friend of Sherlock's, no one was allowed to talk about his brother that way unless he said so. Besides, if anyone was the bastard in the family it was him. Sherlock was simply a boy who'd been forced to grow up too soon, and as a direct result did not know how to cope with the world around him now that he was an adult.

"He is," Greg repeated, but turned to look sideways at his companion with a knowing grin. "But then again, so am I, so we get along rather well." Mycroft looked... irritated. Greg searched the bag in his lap for a few seconds before selective the largest piece he could find. "Here," he chuckled, and when Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, he shoved the crisp inside the shocked man's lips. "Eat." Greg commanded him, reaching over and placing the bag on Mycroft's thighs. He leaned back, his arms stretched behind his head, and he hummed again, his dark eyes closing.

Mycroft turned to stare in shock and anger at the silver haired man sitting next to him. Snapping his head back to the road, he fumed while he masticated the crisp. Once finished he pointedly did not take a crisp from the bag. Instead, in a low voice, still not looking at Gregory, he spoke. "Never do that again. Ever." That had been one of the most humiliating things to happen to Mycroft in a very long time, and he failed to see the apparent amusement in Gregory's actions. The cheek of the man! How DARE he do that to Mycroft Holmes? He could have him shredded to pieces and tossed in the bloody River Thames!

Greg stared at him, his cheeks reddening. He did not speak, but turned his back to Mycroft, leaning on the door and staring out at the countryside. He shouldn't be here. What the hell had made him think Mycroft was human? Hell, at least Sherlock had a damned sense of humour sometimes, and John had helped with that a great deal. Fuck. It had just been one crisp. He was concerned for Mycroft. But he'd not make that mistake again. He'd go do what needed to be done, and then go home and next time Mycroft called, he'd tell him to go fuck himself. That's probably what the stiff SOB needed anyway.

The next few hours were silent, uncomfortable, an atmosphere Mycroft usually thrived in, yet for some reason the silence bothered him. The look of hurt in Gregory's shoulders spoke volumes that words never could, and it was damn unsettling. After much thought, Mycroft knew what it was he must do in order to make the man feel more at ease. After all, he was doing him a favour by coming with on this journey. "I shouldn't have acted so rudely." Mycroft cleared his throat a little, still looking out at the road. "I apologise." With nothing more to say, one hand left the steering wheel and plucked a crisp from the bag, bringing it to his lips.

Greg watched him from the corner of his eye as he began to eat the crisps delicately. Each movement of his long fingers and strong jaw was methodical, and his eyes never left the road in front of them. Greg was quiet for a few moments more, then he nodded, reaching to take a crisp from the bag on Mycroft's legs. His fingers dug about, rooting through the crumbs to find a broken crisp, and he crunched it thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, too," he said with a mouth full of potato, his eyes averted. "I forgot you weren't one of the mates down at the pub." That was a compliment, really. For the first time ever, Mycroft had seemed approachable enough to tease.

Mycroft smiled a little, chewing on another crisp. "This is the first time I have ever been accused of that." He shook his head in amusement and relaxed a little. First and probably last. Gregory would not make the mistake again, Mycroft knew. He was a little surprised at the slight ache that thought brought on. He had assumed that nasty little thought had been squashed hours ago. Obviously he would have to try better. These foolish little fancies could not get in the way of the bigger picture. He silently thanked god there was absolutely no chance of a similar attraction in his companion. After this he would have to stay away from the detective inspector. Far away. Perhaps he would take a vacation. He did need one, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for awkward conversations during road trips! And.... does Mycroft actually have a heart??


	4. When Late Night Telly Turns Into Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to heat up as the trip goes on, and a late night snack fest evolves into something a little more...

They sat in silence again after that, but the silence was comfortable. It was not pregnant with tension, but was occupied with soft noises that filled the space between them. The rumbling of the engine, the whisper of the air conditioner, the grunts that Greg made when they passed a particularly lovely spot. They reached their hotel in record time thanks to Mycroft's heavy foot, and the skillfulness of his diving ability once they arrived in town. He weaved in and out of traffic like a professional, earning an admiring look from Greg, but it was nothing compared to the gaping awe on the inspector's face as they pulled up to a massive, opulent hotel. It was aging, gilded, absolutely Mycroft Holmes, through and through, and as the valet parked the black sedan, Greg turned to blink at his companion. "I would have been fine with a hostel."

"I know." Mycroft said silkily. With that he walked forward and pushed past the grand double doors, entering a tastefully decorated lobby. With a purposeful step, he made his way to the front desk. The woman behind it smiled, asking how she could be of service. The elder Holmes brother's Italian was impeccable as he procured the cards to their rooms. He had booked them an adjoining suite, prudence dictating that he should, under no circumstances, repeat the same rooming situations as the previous night. Turning back once more to the almost cowed detective, Mycroft flashed him a smile. "Your key." He said smoothly, holding it out to the man.

Gregory took it with a flashing smile and a slightly abashed expression. "Thank you," he mumbled, looking about the lobby, terribly aware of how very out of place he must look. Mycroft, even in his casual clothes, looked perfectly at home. His stance, his face, his body language.. everything about the man screamed nobility. Greg caught a glance of himself in a long mirrored wall, and he winced. He was scruffy. There was no other word for it. He followed the other man to the lift, scratching self consciously at his neck, ignoring the subtle glances he was receiving from the other guests. Once upstairs, Mycroft led them to their rooms quietly, and pointed to Greg's door. The inspector ducked his head. "Thanks," he said again, softly.

"If you have need of me, do not hesitate to knock. Our rooms are connected." Mycroft clutched his card key, hoping that didn't sound too... forward or betray the sudden flutters he felt in his stomach. If he had need of him? What the hell would he need of him for? "Goodnight, Gregory. I will text you when it is time to leave." His nose wrinkled a little at the need for texting. He really had no taste for the process. It was such a waste of time. He much preferred to talk and use his hands for other things.

Greg nodded, and slipped inside of his room, shutting the door behind him. He stood in the entryway for several seconds, gazing in shock and a touch of delight at the surroundings. The room was richly furnished, and the bed was easily large enough for four people. He disrobed immediately, stripping down to his pants and nothing else, and he climbed in the plush bed, pulling the mounds of velvet and silk over his body. He lay for long minutes, groaning in satisfaction. Greg liked comfort. He was not a wealthy man, and he did not need such things, but damn. They were nice. After a few minutes, his ears perked. Mycroft was shuffling about in the next room, no doubt laying his things out for the next day, and Greg grinned, reaching for the mobile he'd placed on the bedside table.

_Mycroft, you there? - Lestrade_

Mycroft heard his camera phone buzz while he was in the middle of lying his clothing out for the next day. Picking the mobile up, he sat down heavily on the vast bed, flopping down so that he was lying across the width of the mattress. Lestrade? What on earth was he texting him for so soon?

_Obviously. What is it? - MH_

What could Gregory possibly need from him?

_You said you'd text me in the morning when it was time to go. Can't we have some breakfast? - Lestrade_

_I don't see why we couldn't. I will wake you up early, then. - MH_

Mycroft set the phone down and shimmied out of his trousers, yanking the shirt off as well. With a sigh he crawled into the covers, dressed only in his pants. Picking up the phone he set it next to his head, staring at it in a sort of surprised, wary, and slightly melancholic fashion. The great empty space in the covers seemed more apparent that night than it had in a very, very long time. Mycroft found himself wishing for company. He swallowed hard and angrily punched a down pillow. This was absurd! Ridiculous. One night in the company of another person and he was turning into this wishy washy pile? Unacceptable.

There was a long period of silence in which the electric hum of a television could be heard vibrating from Greg's hotel room. Mycroft had almost fallen asleep when his mobile buzzed again.

Greg was lying in his opulent bed, grinning, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

_Want to order some room service? You've got to be starved. - Lestrade_

At first the elder Holmes brother was mildly irate when he heard his mobile buzz, but when he saw the text he smiled a little and rolled over on his stomach.

_Meaning, I take it, that you are more than peckish? - MH_

_More than a little. A lot. Come on over, we'll watch telly and eat. Order us something. You're paying. And drinks, order us drinks. I want to get pissed. - Lestrade_

With a slight reminder that he was supposed to be putting as much distance from him and the talkative detective as possible, Mycroft got up, reluctantly pulled his trousers and shirt on, and padded to the door. Clutching a soft red robe to his chest, Mycroft knocked lightly on the door before he opened it and peered around, blinking somewhat owlishly in the dim lighting. "May I come in?" He asked softly.

Greg yelped a little, surprised at the swift acquiescence, and he tossed his phone aside, gesturing him over. "Come on!" he said merrily, hopping out of bed and fumbling in his bag for a pair of jersey knit trousers he often wore to jog. The Scotland Yard emblem was blazoned on the front pocket, and he pulled them on one leg at a time, leaving his chest bare. "Did you order yet?" he asked, glad to have the company tonight. He didn't want to spend the night thinking about home, and his ex, and his empty flat.

"No, I was going to order with the phone in this room. It's easier." Mycroft smiled briefly, crossing the room with more than slightly hesitant steps. "I hope you don't mind." Why did Gregory have to be shirtless? Furthermore, why did he have to have such a perfectly formed torso? Mycroft blanched at the thought of ever taking his own shirt off around the man. Hell would freeze over first. He stood by the bed, slightly nonplussed at the situation he found himself in. "What would you like me to order?" He asked after a short while.

"Anything." Greg threw himself on the bed, stretching noisily and grabbing at the remote, as if afraid Mycroft would reach it first and change the telly to some public broadcasting programme. He was currently watching an Italian talk show, and it looked interesting, except for one thing. "Hurry," he barked as Mycroft raised his phone to his ear. "You have to translate for me, I can't understand a bloody word of this. Get me a beer!" he reminded the man in as loud a voice as possible.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, secretly glad of the raucous behaviour. He could tell there was a reason behind the sudden attitude shift, but he wasn't concerned about that right now. He simply wanted to keep his mind off of unwanted areas, and the more annoying Gregory acted the better. Ordering a bottle of champagne, one six pack of beer, several different foodstuffs, Mycroft finally put the phone down and turned to find Gregory staring at the telly, completely absorbed despite his lack of a translator. "They're talking about a new book." Mycroft said softly, still standing near the bed. "It's thoroughly uninteresting. I'm sure you could find a decent film playing." He turned his attention to the telly as well, leaning against the wall and making a face as one of the women on the programme squealed.

Reluctantly, with much sighing and grimacing, Greg held out the remote control, cocking his head at Mycroft and eyeing the space next to him with uplifted eyebrows. "Find us something good to watch, eh?" he asked, yawning. "Nothing based on a book. No art films. Unless there's nudity." He laughed at his own joke, and waited for Mycroft with a look of impatience. Was he just going to stand there all night?

Mycroft accepted the remote and swiftly navigated through the channels, finally deciding on an English movie, as he was quite sure Lestrade would not wish to read subtitles. "There." He said simply, setting the remote down and perching on the very edge of the bed. "Ocean's 11." Mycroft folded his hands neatly in his lap and stared over at Lestrade. "No nudity, I am afraid." He smiled a little at that and turned his attention to the screen, fully prepared to watch the film. This being one of the movies he enjoyed, despite the absurdity of it.

This was good, It didn't need translation, and it was a guy movie. Greg listened to Mycroft quietly dissect the action sequences, and he laughed at the man's indignation at the improbabilities of the film. Mycroft was even smiling a bit, and that was a huge step in the right direction. When room service came, Greg popped up from the bed, eager enough to answer the door. He brought the trays inside, bearing the alcohol in his arms, and he toppled into the bed with a laugh. "Thanks," he said once more to Mycroft, but he meant it. His grin was genuine, and the dark eyes twinkled. "I promise I won't try to feed you again," he leered a little, snickering.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and plucked a piece of bruschetta from one of the platters, nibbling delicately at it. "Good." He said simply, taking up the bottle of champagne and pouring himself a glass. "I don't take well to that sort of thing. No one would dare try anymore." The smile that flitted across his face was a thin, triumphant one. He had long since overcome the stage in his life where people felt so free as to pop food in his mouth, or to ruffle his hair, or to guffaw good naturedly at a few of his more abnormal antics. And Mycroft was grateful for that. He had only ever encountered one man who consistently tried to do those things, and that was his assistant Morgan. However, Morgan had learnt the hard way that Mycroft was not a man to be messed with. He did not appreciate people in his space. Mycroft took another, larger bite of the bruschetta and turned his attention back to the movie.

Greg popped the top of a can of ice cold beer, and settled back on the bed with one hand wrapped around the can, and the other bearing a very large sandwich. He took a huge bite, grunting with appreciation, and he washed it down with a gulp. "Hey." His eyes narrowed at the prim fellow, perched on the edge of the bed, sipping delicately at a glass of champagne and nibbling at a tiny wedge of crispy bruschetta. "What the hell are you doing?"

Mycroft, startled, looked up at Gregory in surprise. "I would think that was obvious." he said cautiously. Had he changed his mind? Did he want him to leave now? The elder Holmes brother waited for his companion to explain his sudden outburst. Mycroft was not at all used to being spoken in such tones, and he did not at all appreciate it.

"Get the fuck up here." Greg leaned forward, setting his beer aside long enough to grab Mycroft by the shirt collar and he pulled the man onto the bed, grinning. Hell, he needed to loosen up. He picked up his beer again, knocking it cheerfully against the glass in Mycroft's hand. "There. Isn't that better?" he asked, taking a long drink.

Mycroft gaped at him, straightening his collar and trying to regain his pride. He did not answer Gregory, instead sat very, very still, his hand frozen on the now wet champagne flute. He glanced down at where the liquid had sloshed on his trousers and bath robe. What the HELL had just happened? What made this obtuse… tactile man think he could be so forward? No one EVER acted like this! Mycroft didn't know how to take it. Gregory sat beside him, stretched out and comfortable, lying across the width of the bed and munching steadily on his sandwich, seemingly blissfully oblivious to Mycroft's discomfort. This was not at all how he had expected his evening to go. But then again that seemed to be a consistent phenomenon with Gregory Lestrade.

The detective inspector burst out laughing at something on the telly, once more settling a bit into the plush comfort of the bed, and he looked across at the man now sitting very stiffly next to him, unmoving. Greg sighed, finishing off his sandwich and dusting the crumbs from the bed as he cracked open another beer. "Look," he mumbled quietly, reaching for a plate of crackers. "You've got to let your guard down sometimes, Mycroft. I understand," he said swiftly, before Mycroft's open mouth could voice the protest he knew was forming. "I get it. Queen and country, vigilance, all that rot. But come on, man. It's just us here right now. No surveillance, no cameras, no danger. There's time for that tomorrow. Tonight..." He elbowed him in the ribs, gently. "I mean, look at you. You're wearing trousers, for fuck's sake." Greg gestured to himself, and his nearly naked, very comfortable state. "Let your hair down."

"I don't wear pyjamas unless I am sleeping." Mycroft replied stiffly, setting the now empty plate aside and clearing his throat a little. Let his hair down? Gregory obviously did not know him. The idea of it all! He was indignant at first, but then he mellowed down a bit. Of course Gregory didn't know him. No one knew Mycroft, and that was all his doing. He never wanted people to get close enough where he felt comfortable enough to "let his hair down", because once he did something bad always happened. "This is me relaxed." He said after a little while, staring pointedly at the television.

"No..." Greg turned to face him, sighing. He could very well lose his badge for this, and possibly a hell of a lot more. He didn't even know why it bothered him so, but the slight buzz from two consecutive beers emboldened him, and damn it, there had to be more to Mycroft Holmes than this... this Ice Man! With steady, warm fingers, Greg unbuttoned the first three buttons on the man's shirt, digging beneath the dressing gown to loosen the collar, and he lifted one eyebrow, glancing down. "Don't shoot me, okay?" he grumbled, a twinkle in his dark eyes. "I'm not copping a feel." With the warning in place, Greg's hands fell to the expensive Italian leather belt, and he loosened it as well, thumbing it open, catching Mycroft's round turquoise eyes and winking. "There," he said with a smile, leaning back on the pillows. "Now you're relaxed. Well. More relaxed anyway." He plucked a grape from a bowl of fruit, turning his attention back to the movie.

If anything that had made Mycroft one million times more uncomfortable. The close proximity to Gregory had been unnerving, startling, arousing, and unwanted. Why the hell had he done that? He could have just told Mycroft to unbutton a few buttons and remove the belt. Why did he have to enter into his personal space? And why, oh why, did he have to do it in such an intimate fashion? "I don't see what difference this makes." He muttered, his hands plucking at the linen trousers. A flush had risen to Mycroft's cheeks and he suddenly felt a strong urge to go back into his room and huddle under the blankets. No one had gotten under his skin like this in a very, very long time and Mycroft did not know how to take it.

They sat in silence for a long time, watching the movie, not speaking. The food disappeared, mostly down Greg's throat, and when the movie was over, his fingers brushed the table, reaching for a beer once more. They came up empty. He stared in confusion, blinking sleepily at the space where the cans had been, then he turned to Mycroft with a low growl. "Thought... you ordered six," he slurred, and yawned. Mycroft was gazing at the credits as they rolled, his proud face blank and pale in the dim light. Greg reached for the remote control, but his head reeled a little, and Mycroft held it out of his reach. He scowled. "Give it."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and handed the remote to the other man. After all, there was no use arguing with a drunk. He folded his hands primly in his lap, waiting for Gregory to give a hint that he should leave. This whole encounter was completely out of the ordinary for Mycroft, especially the way Gregory was acting. Why did he care so much? Mycroft wasn't his friend. Hell, they weren't even close. So why bother? They could just travel this journey in silence and end it the same as they'd began it. "You're inebriated. You should go to sleep." Mycroft glanced to the door longingly and shifted about.

"Can't sleep." Greg turned over, lying on his side facing Mycroft, fumbling with the buttons on the telly and getting more and more frustrated. "Every station... fuckin' Italian.." He made an exasperated noise, and turned it off at last, throwing the remote on the carpet. Mycroft made a slight coughing noise, and Greg sighed. "Fine. Go. You want to go, I can see that. Fucking fine." He punched his pillow a little, grumbling sadly to himself. It was going to be a bad night, he could already tell. Bloody insomnia. He lay on his stomach, staring at the headboard, his brow drawn.

Mycroft did not move. His brain snapped at his body to do so, but he couldn't. He wouldn't. "What is your favourite colour?" He asked suddenly, staring at his hands. "I was guessing yellow, but now I am not entirely sure." The posh man turned around and looked at the detective inspector. He couldn't leave him like this. Not when he looked so dejected and upset. It wasn't right. Because after all, Gregory HAD come with him as a favour. He should return the favour. And that was absolutely the only reason why he was staying.

Greg lifted his chin a little, and rotated his head very slowly to gaze up at his companion. "Brown," he said softly, eyes wide in disbelief. It was a small gesture, a kind one, one that was not lost on Greg. Logically, Mycroft should get up and go to bed, and snap at Lestrade to do the same. Hell. He probably should have drugged him. But instead... he was making conversation. Or attempting to anyway. "I like brown," he repeated, a tiny smile in the corners of his mouth. "It's underrated, and soothing. Figure... Mother Nature put enough of it around. Must be good for something."

Mycroft nodded, clambering up onto the bed and leaning against the headboard, propping his knees up a little and resting his elbows on them. "Brown is a good colour. It's very calming. Suits you." With some slight shifting to get comfortable, the man pushed a pillow to support his lower back and gazed down at his long fingers. "I knew I was wrong. It's not often that I am wrong. Congratulations." He smiled wryly at the silver haired man and steepled his fingers together. "And your favourite genre of music?"

"Jazz, but you knew that." Greg pushed up on his elbows, genuinely smiling now. He cocked his head, laughing a little at the man next to him. "Is this payback for my interrogation in the car?"

Mycroft nodded, his smile turning into a genuine one. "And your favourite movie?" He loosened the belt on his dressing gown and let his hands fall to his sides, only a few short inches from Gregory's body. So close he could feel the heat radiating from him.

"I suppose..." Greg thought a moment, flipping to lie on his back, his head still turned to Mycroft. He mused a few seconds, and his mouth twitched as he closed one eye, surveying the man above. "Do you want the answer I always give to that question, or the real answer?"

"I would think the answer to that question obvious. I want to hear the real answer. Common courtesy." Mycroft's fingers itched to reach forward and brush the hair from Gregory's forehead. "I could have told you my favourite movie was... Citizen Kane, but I did not." Mycroft smiled down at Gregory and nudged his arm with a middle finger, a barely there touch.

Greg felt the brush of the fingertip, and to his utter shock, gooseflesh sprang out on his arms and legs. He flushed, licking his lips, hoping Mycroft didn't notice, and he answered quickly so as to distract him. At least the only light in the room was a silver glow from the city lights streaming in through the darkened window. "I usually tell people that my favourite movie is Dirty Harry. But it's not. My favourite movie..." He grinned through the shadows up at Mycroft, and sat up quickly, cross legged on the bed, close to him. "You won't tell a soul." It was not a question. Greg knew Mycroft wouldn't tell a soul. Mycroft didn't have anyone to tell. "It's The King and I." White teeth flashed in the moonlight.

Mycroft looked down at him and then a broad smile broke out on his lips. "You mean the one with Deborah Kerr and Yul Brynner?" He laughed a deep laugh that started in his belly and worked its way from his throat with a rich, full sound. "The one where she sings that whistle song? Ahhhh, I haven't seen that film in... years. It was so... inaccurate. It makes me smile. Especially Yul Brynner's character." Running a hand through his hair, Mycroft sighed and stared at the vacant telly screen. "That is a surprising answer." He said finally, closing his eyes.

"Yeah, I am full of surprises." Greg laughed too, but his eyes stayed trained on Mycroft. The alcohol in his system was working strangely. In the soft light of the city and the moon, Mycroft Holmes looked... looked...

ethereal.

His mind supplied the word, and Greg was rather taken aback by it. It was true, he supposed. There was a golden halo on the wispy hair atop his head, and the noble profile was silvered, softened, as if someone had gentled his features with a paintbrush. Gone were the lines of worry and care... in their place, a handsome, almost angelic creature sat beside him, relaxed and comfortable at last. Greg studied him closely, his smile fading a little in wonder. "So are you, Mycroft," he said quietly.

Mycroft chuckled and shook his head. "I'm not full of surprises. You just have to know where to look." The elder Holmes brother rested his head on a shoulder and let his legs stretch out in front of him, staring at his naked toes as he wiggled them out in front of him. "When did you begin to have insomnia?" He asked suddenly, glancing over at the staring man. "It is a horrible affliction." He gave Lestrade a sympathetic look and rubbed his legs, yawning a little.

"When Deborah left me." Greg shrugged his shoulders, then frowned, shifting back so that he was sitting next to Mycroft, his back against the headboard, their arms brushing. "I guess, no, that's not true. It was before then. First I started sleeping on the sofa, and she started sleeping with the gym coach, and then I just... stopped sleeping." He looked over at his companion, smiling in resignation. "I was broken up at first, but it had been over for a long time. Just didn't want to let go. Not because of her, so much, I just... hated the idea of sleeping all alone in a flat and a bed and being alone again."

Mycroft nodded knowingly. "Sleeping alone is... well, it's not a pleasant thing. An empty bed is lonely." He rubbed his hand together and leaned his chin on his chest. "I suppose that's part of the reason why I am almost never at my home. It is always empty. Always echoing back at me." He laughed hollowly and stole another glance at his companion, holding his breath. Gregory's face was saddened and lines had appeared on his face. "I know the feeling."

Greg nodded, biting his lip and hiccuping a little. He was tired. He was so, so tired, and so, so sad. Mycroft... was far more human than he'd ever anticipated. It was humbling, and a little disconcerting. "Bed," he mumbled, pulling the blankets back and scuttling into their warmth. The sheets were heavenly, so soft, so inviting against his naked flesh.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. Goodnight Gregory." He slid off the bed and stuffed his feet back into the slippers, retying the belt around his robe and picking up his other belt. "Sleep well." He waved a little and shuffled to the door.

"Wait." Greg sat up a little, opening and closing his mouth a few times as Mycroft hesitated by the doors that joined their bedrooms. Once more, he wondered at the strength of the beers he'd just consumed as the words came stumbling from his lips, halted and awkward. "You can stay. If you want."

"S..stay?" Mycroft squeaked, clutching at his robe even tighter. "Wh…" he began, an acerbic response to the obviously asinine and most likely teasing question on the tip of his tongue, just waiting for his lips to wrap themselves around the words. But at the hopeful, almost frightened look on Gregory's face, he suddenly felt compelled to stay. "I, ah, I suppose." He returned to the bed and hesitantly sat back down, removing the slippers and robe. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? This was the exact OPPOSITE of staying away from Gregory Lestrade! With a little trepidation, Mycroft lifted the covers up and slipped under them, pulling them up to his chin. "The light is on your side." He mumbled, his cheeks heating up. Trying to remember why the hell he had agreed to stay, Mycroft turned on his side, trying to hide the flush on his cheeks. "Goodnight, Gregory." He murmured quietly.

"Goodnight." Greg sank into the blankets, lying on his back with an arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Mycroft's body heat was so comforting, so familiar. It had been ages since he'd slept in the same bed with another person, and Greg fought the urge to curl up against him, pull him closer, just to FEEL. To feel the rise and fall of breath against his stomach and chest. To feel the wisp of hair tickling his nostrils as he drifted to sleep. To feel the gentle nudge of a warm thigh, naked against his own... He swallowed, and turned his back to the other man, his chest constricting. Maybe... it was time to start dating again. Maybe he should call Molly. When one started wishing Mycroft Holmes wasn't wearing trousers... it was time to start dating.

Sleep didn't find Mycroft for a long time. He stayed awake, staring at the opposite wall, listening to Gregory inhale and exhale. He felt the heat rolling off the detective inspector's body and fought the urge to shift closer to him, to rest his head on the same pillow, nestling in the hollow of his neck. He fought it all, clenching and unclenching his fist. Yes. He was working too hard. That was it. Surely. He was having some sort of break down. What he needed was to lie on a beach somewhere, possibly find someone to shag. Because clearly he'd been without it for far too long. Far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who is reading this: you are all awesome!  
> Everyone who is reviewing this: You are the bee's pyjamas, the cat's knees. We wouldn't be able to write without you!


	5. Sometimes Sherlock Can Be an Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory and Mycroft finally reach their destination, all they have to do is save Sherlock and John, convince them that they were saved and that they really ought to come home with them before they get into anymore trouble, and then, after all that is done... they have to survive the trip back. Will Mycroft and Gregory be able to make it through even one night before something gives? (Yes, I am terrible at reviews)

Mycroft slept fitfully, waking many times throughout the night simply to make sure he had not touched Gregory in the course of their slumber. The sound of someone breathing behind him was too lulling and seductive to allow him to sleep, it made him wary and on edge. It was six in the morning before he woke properly and he was utterly exhausted. Unable to look behind him, the poor man eased out of bed and crept to his room, opening and closing the door behind him. He had slept with Gregory. SLEPT with him. No, they hadn't had sexual intercourse, but they'd fallen asleep on the same bed! Mycroft groaned and sunk down on his own mattress, his head swimming with the entirety of what he had done. Drunk. That was it. Surely! He must have been a little inebriated to have allowed himself to be so loose and... open with another human being. To actively carry on a deep, personal, conversation and to willingly slip into bed with the person... it was unheard of. Unthinkable. And it had to stop. Gregory Lestrade was a dangerous person, and Mycroft knew he had to get away from the man as quickly as possible. HE would not fall under a spell so easily. HE would never allow himself to become so low as to become attracted and emotionally attached to another person over the course of one weekend.

The inspector stirred from his slumber without Mycroft's aid, promptly at seven-thirteen, and he found himself alone in his room. Greg sat up, head throbbing, pulsing with the after-effects of a half dozen beers, and he stared at the closed door that joined his suite with his companion's. How long had Mycroft stayed last night? He knew he was there when he fell asleep... hell, Greg could still smell his expensive cologne, hanging on the sheets. It was pleasant, stale and masculine. He sighed, making a mental note to apologise for his idiotic behaviour as soon as he saw Mycroft. There was no excuse for getting pissed, then coercing him to stay. Greg shuffled about the room, gathering his clothes, his feet taking him eventually to the shower. Hell, he needed about six aspirin. He was washed, brushed, and neat as a pin when he knocked tentatively on Mycroft's door an hour later. Somewhere in his mind, he hoped there was still time for a cup of coffee before they swooped down on Sherlock and John with their political firepower and prestige, and saved them from the sticky mess they'd entangled themselves in. Where Sherlock's hands-on, direct approach had proven disastrous, Greg had no doubt whatsoever that the subtle, terrifying threats of Mycroft Holmes would succeed. Swimmingly. And the sooner they retrieved the dynamic duo, the sooner he could return to London, and his cold, empty flat, and the answering machine that never had any messages on it, ever. He winced, waiting for Mycroft to answer his knock.

Mycroft was dressed and calm by the time the knock sounded on the door. He didn't even need a deep breath before he answered it, though he took on anyway. "Gregory. I was about to wake you." The brunette smiled tightly, stepping out of his room armed with his umbrella. "I am afraid I lost track of time. We no longer have enough time to eat breakfast. Just a quick coffee and a doughnut." Mycroft met Gregory's eyes just once before he walked past him quickly, striding down the opulent hall. They were going to have to sit in the same car for twenty minutes before they reached Sherlock's location. Damn Sherlock! Damn him to hell! Why did he always have to cause such trouble?

Mycroft's umbrella made soft tapping noises as he walked along the rich wood floor, not looking back at the man who he had allowed to see his inner self in a moment of weakness and alcohol. For that was all it was. Weakness aided by liquor. Behind him he could hear the footfalls of Gregory's rubber soled oxfords and they seemed to shake him. He refused to look down at his own leather shoes; Mycroft had deemed it necessary to return to his regular garments. The mix of linen, cotton, and canvas seemed to be the devil's own recipe.

Greg followed Mycroft downstairs to the posh little cafe, and he hovered in the background as the tall, dignified man ordered him a coffee. He remembered how he took it, of course, and inexplicably knew what sort of pastry to get him as well, a fact which bothered Greg a good deal more than it should have. It meant that despite his inquiries and prodding, Mycroft Holmes still knew more about Greg Lestrade than Lestrade would ever know about him. True, Mycroft had the resources of the Crown at his disposal, but still, Greg fancied himself a decent detective in his own right, and yet he could not solve the puzzle of this man. Last night, Mycroft had seemed soft, warm, and human. He'd spoken of his loneliness, and the emptiness of his bed, his flat. Greg had connected with that man, on a deep, empathetic level. And though he'd prepared himself for a cooler reception this morning, Greg found that it was a little painful nonetheless. Mycroft seemed distant, cold, a complete stranger from the man with whom he'd shared his bed the night before. Greg flushed, hands in his pockets as he waited for the coffee. Why in blazes had he asked him to stay? Drunk or no, it was a highly suspect thing to do, and he didn't blame Mycroft one whit for acting oddly today. The detective inspector accepted his cup from the barista, and plodded after Mycroft to hail a cab, his face pinched in thought. He really couldn't explain it, even to himself, except that he had felt extraordinarily fond of Mycroft last night, and he really, really hated sleeping alone. And hell. It did feel nice.

Mycroft's coffee was sickeningly sweet, which was how he liked it every single day except, for some reason, on this particular morning. It tasted like ash in his mouth and bile in his throat. It tasted of regret. A feeling Mycroft was all too familiar with. "It will take twenty minutes to arrive at the flat Sherlock and John are currently squatting in. You have your gun, I suppose? I highly doubt we will need it. I have dealt with Marco and his men before and we have somewhat of an understanding." Mycroft unlocked the car and started it up as they walked out onto the car park. Why the hell was the sun shining so aggressively? Yesterday it had seemed far more appealing, enjoyable, even. Why was it so abrasive now? Mycroft squinted, eager to reach the car and his sunglasses therein. "Marco is the one Sherlock has muddled himself in. He is a dangerous, smart man." Mycroft explained, settling in the car and taking his sunglasses from their cosy spot.

Greg lowered himself quietly into the passenger seat, looking out the window, purposefully not glancing at the driver as he spoke in low, even tones. "Just so long as I don't spend my day tied to a chair, having my life threatened," he grumbled. Mycroft made a non-committal noise, which should have been Greg's first clue, but he was too focused on clearing his head of every single tiny thought that could lead to a recollection of the previous evening. They wove through traffic, the sun beating down on Greg's arm, slung lazily over the window of the car.

He spent most of the day tied to a chair.

Negotiations with Marco came to a stuttering halt the moment Mycroft mentioned Sherlock's name, and the quaint little restaurant in which they were sitting down with the crime lord suddenly became overwhelmingly congested with bulky men with menacing faces. Greg spent his afternoon watching in frustration and wry humour as Mycroft coolly worked out terms for his little brother's life, calling up favours, promising some in return, never once throwing a spare glance at the Scotland Yard inspector that was tied to an uncomfortable dining chair with the cold tip of a Ruger pressed to his brow. It was an inconvenience, yes, a damned nuisance... but Greg found that he was not afraid. There was something about watching Mycroft in his element that would allow no such emotion. He waited, ever patient, quiet and expressionless, until they were allowed at last to leave, and pick up Sherlock and John from their cloistered rooms. Greg foolishly thought the worst was over. He was ever so wrong.

It was several, several hours before Mycroft managed to strike a deal with the ever demanding Marco Moltisanti. It had taken them another twenty minutes to get to Sherlock and John, and another thirty to convince them to stop fucking and get out of the damn flat. All in all it had been a wretched day and Mycroft was not at all sad to see it end.

By the time they reached the hotel, it seemed as though everyone, except Sherlock, breathed a sigh of relief. Beds were waiting and then London after that. And no one was happier than Mycroft Holmes. The trip had gone on far too long already.

"Get in there!" Gregory pushed the lanky man through the door bodily, ignoring the snarl that whipped about towards him, dark curls dancing around a pale, gaunt face, and Greg slammed the door behind them, barely missing Mycroft's leg as he hustled Sherlock Holmes inside of his hotel room. The man shrugged him off, shouting loudly for his lover and cursing. "Enough of that," Greg barked, pushing him gently towards a plush chair in the corner. Sherlock bared his teeth, refusing to sit, and the detective inspector rolled his eyes. "John will be up in a minute, there's no need for this. It's a posh place, hold your fucking tongue." He glanced over his shoulder at the elder Holmes brother, standing with his arms folded by the door. It had been like this all afternoon. They'd barely gotten the two men out alive, and Sherlock's shouting and fury had not helped. Greg frowned at Mycroft. He had a headache. Huh. When had he learned what Mycroft's face looked like when he had a headache? How his brow creased, his eyes crinkled a bit, his nostrils twitched...

Another stream of cursing flew from Sherlock's lips, and Greg stabbed him in the chest. "Sit down, would you? Fuck!"

"I was FINE." Sherlock snapped again, slapping Lestrade's hands away. "You and my fucking TWAT of a brother had to break in just when I had FIGURED THE DAMN THING OUT." He surged to his feet once more and shoved at the detective inspector, his silver eyes darting over to where his brother stood by the door as though daring him to say something.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began, fighting the urge to rub his forehead. "You were in danger, I had to get you out."

"Since when have you cared about me being in danger?" Sherlock's voice dripped with animosity as he sneered at his older brother. "I seem to remember you giving me to Moriarty. Or have you forgotten, brother dear?"

Mycroft's face went slightly pale as his hands clenched together. Almost unnoticeable. "Sherlock."

"FUCK OFF." The younger Holmes brother whirled around and kicked the chair he'd previously been sitting in. "Where is JOHN? I don't want to be in this room. I don't need to be by HIM." Sherlock howled out in anger.

Greg opened his mouth to tell Sherlock just where he could stick his bloody magnifying glass, but the door to the room burst open, and John strode in, pink faced and breathing hard. "There's no rooms," he snapped, brushing past Mycroft without so much as a glance. He marched up to Sherlock, hands on his hips, ignoring the other two men.

That was not unusual... John only ever had eyes for Sherlock Holmes. "They're booked solid, there's no fucking rooms."

Sherlock's face darkened, and Greg groaned. Damn it. This wasn't going to be pretty.

Sherlock's eyes flashed with anger and he pushed passed John, focusing on Mycroft. "I thought you had this taken care of. The least you could do was get me a GODDAMN ROOM." He stabbed a finger in Mycroft's chest, his face barely two inches from his brother's, the perfect picture of rage. "ONE ROOM. Or has your job begun to corrode your memory? Getting slow, Mycroft? Well, it's not that surprising. It's obvious you aren't half as intelligent as some of us."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. Sherlock had gotten worse. He'd taken cues from John and descended into petty insults. Well, worse than usual. He never had been exactly the picture of adulthood, but he'd gotten worse. "Sherlock, calm down."

"Sherlock." John was standing behind him, tugging him away from his brother, but the doctor's grey eyes were narrowed at the man in the precise dark suit as well. "Come on, we'll book somewhere else."

"No," Greg interjected firmly, and both men turned on him with fiery eyes. "You won't. We've come all this way, and you're arses were nearly handed to you back there. You're staying put." He held up his hand to stave off Sherlock's hiss of disdain. "Or I'll arrest you both."

John snorted, dropping Sherlock's coat to face Lestrade, his chin thrust out stubbornly. "We didn't ask you to come. We were fucking FINE. Sherlock would have thought of something." He lifted his eyebrows, daring Greg to disagree. "Now I don't know about you ladies, but I intend to shag tonight, and if you don't want us shagging in the fucking hallway, you'd best find us a fucking room!"

"If you both would cool down for a few seconds." Mycroft interjected, rolling his eyes at the drama of the couple. "You may have my room. The bed is quite large enough for any activity you two choose to partake in." He picked his umbrella and pointed it at John and Sherlock. "Now, will you both cease acting like children and BEHAVE." Mycroft's eyes flashed and his tone brooked no argument as he slammed the end of his umbrella on the ground.

Greg smirked. His eyes flitted to Mycroft's over John and Sherlock's shoulders, and for a moment, they met and held. Hell, that was nice to hear someone talk to Sherlock that way. No one by Mycroft Holmes could command such authority. And yet the second his gaze drifted back to Sherlock's expression... he knew the words would not go unpunished. His stomach twisted in anticipation.

"Behave?" Sherlock asked softly, his gloved fingers flexing into a fist. "Behave..." He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed to a thin slit. "You arrogant, pompous, asinine prick. I wasn't acting like a child, I don't act like a child. I was simply pointing out your gaping mistakes. Mistakes which you've been making quite a lot of lately, Mycroft." Sherlock advanced on his brother, who stood there with a calm, bored expression on his face. "One might question why. Why has the man in charge of the British government been so lax of late? Perhaps it is a lack of excitement. Perhaps it is a lack of sex. Which brings forth another question. Which of us is really scared of that, hmmm?" Sherlock's face twisted into a nasty smirk as Mycroft's lips twitched a little. "Or could it be that-"

"Be quiet." Mycroft cut him off, his voice cold and full of ire. "Be quite now, Sherlock Holmes."

The two Holmes brothers stared at each other for a very long time, identical expressions of intensity on their faces. The room crackled with energy as they faced off, both furious at the other.

The tension was shattered, not by John, as was usual... the good doctor frequently was the crack in the ice, with a soft word, and a well place hand on the small of his lover's back. No, this time, instead of the gentle murmurs of the doctor, Sherlock was hauled bodily away from his brother and thrown four feet away, toppling over the edge of the bed and landing on the mattress, his limbs sprawled, an expression of horror and indignation spreading across his face. John gasped, growling, but Greg was bending over him already, livid. "Don't." It was all he said, but John took a step back, his grey eyes wide. The detective inspector stalked over to Sherlock, grabbing him up by the lapels and yanking him off the bed. "Shut the FUCK up," he spat, shoving him at the door that joined their hotel rooms. "You'll not say another word to your brother. You'll let him get his things and you'll shut the damned door and if I hear the two of you moaning like fucking cats all night, I'll shoot you in the balls, do you understand?" He thrust him in the room, shaking from head to toe.

Sherlock spluttered, his cheeks stained red as he stared dumbfounded at Lestrade, unable to move. Completely in shock. Much like his brother.

Mycroft was frozen where he stood, and, had he been a lesser man his mouth would have been slack. As it was his lips were tight shut and his hands clenching and unclenching around the umbrella he clutched to his person. Lestrade had effectively shocked both of them into complete silence. Neither of them knew why he stood up for Mycroft. In fact Mycroft had fully been expecting him to stand quietly aside like he always did, and let the two of them take care of their own problems. Then, after everything was over, he would allow Sherlock to complain to him about how awful Mycroft was. It was standard procedure, and neither of them had been expecting it to be broken.

There was a very long silence, filled only with the sound of breathing. Sherlock's, quick and shallow, John's, steady and quiet, Mycroft's, stunted and choppy, and Greg's... heavy, loud, and fast. Slowly, John moved towards the bedroom in which his lover now stood, trembling and frozen. "Mycroft," he murmured, his stormy eyes trained on the tall, dark detective. He slid his arm around Sherlock, kissing his cheek lightly. "We're sorry we were acting like children, you were quite right. Thank you for the room. Do you need to get anything before I put this one to bed?" He nodded towards Sherlock, smiling a little sheepishly. His sharp eyes darted from Greg's crimson cheeks to Mycroft's pale, flabbergasted face.

"Ah, yes." Mycroft shook himself and smiled stiffly. "Yes. I will only be a moment." He stalked over to the door and passed Sherlock, not speaking a word to him. Quickly gathering his bag and the few other things he'd laid out the previous night, he stuffed them all into the overnight bag beside his bed. Why had Gregory done that? Why had he said those things? Why? He shouldered the bag and returned to the room. Not looking at any of the men in the room, Mycroft's fingers tightened on the handle of his bag "Good night Dr Watson, Sherlock." He said coolly, and with that he hurried to the loo and shut the door quietly behind him, leaning up against it. That had been an embarrassing display. How could he have allowed it to get so out of hand? How could he have allowed Sherlock to even begin to speak? What did Gregory think? He would definitely leave after this. Mycroft sank to the floor and held his head in his hands, groaning silently.

Greg stood in the doorway, staring down at the floor, and he cleared his throat, pointedly not looking at the loo Mycrfot had just disappeared into.

John approached cautiously. "Goodnight, Greg," he said in a low voice, trying to catch his gaze.

Greg looked up, and sighed, shaking his head. "Sorry, Sherlock." He peered over John at the sulking man, still wearing his overcoat. "You take it too far sometimes."

John smiled. He really did.

Sherlock didn't answer, he stalked away from the door and threw himself on the bed, his feathers thoroughly ruffled.

When Mycroft exited the loo he was freshly showered and clothed in his pyjamas and robe. He'd brushed his teeth vigorously and washed his face repeatedly before deeming himself fit to be seen. Now he was exhausted. Completely drained. It was a blessing that he would be returning to London on the morrow. He saw Gregory sitting down on the bed, flipping through channels and his chest constricted. "Ah, Gregory." Mycroft pocketed his hands and stood in the doorway, a little at a loss as what to do. "I apologise for that. My brother can get out of hand. And I am sorry for keeping you passed your deadline. I promised to have you back in London tonight." He cleared his throat and licked his lips. "And... I apologise for offering my room up. I should have discussed it with you. Of course I will sleep on the sofa." He looked down at the floor, unable to continue staring at Gregory. Especially when it was so blatant how much of a massive cock up this entire fiasco had been.

"No need." Greg didn't move his eyes from the telly. He was flipping channels, and had not been paying the slightest bit of attention to the programmes. He'd been thinking... thinking intently. Why the fuck had he done that? Sherlock was his friend. Mycroft was his... well, not employer exactly, but he sure as hell was not his friend. Though it seemed that through this entire excursion, he'd seen different sides to Mycroft Holmes, and last night... Greg sighed, turning off the box and pushing himself up to sit in the bed. He didn't want to think about last night. Last night, he'd been lonely. Last night, he'd been thinking about his cold flat, and how much he missed having a warm body next to him, and... damn it. Now he was thinking about it again. "Bed's plenty big," he mumbled, and tossed aside the decorative pillows that he'd piled on Mycroft's side.

Mycroft nodded, but did not move. "I need a cigarette." He said finally, walking to his bag and taking out a simple silver cigarette case. "Excuse me." With a bland smile, the elder Holmes brother stepped out onto the previously unused balcony. He leaned up against the railing and lit a thin cigarette, inwardly cursing. Yes, the bed was big enough, but he couldn't take the strain. Not right now. Not like this. He couldn't sleep next to the frankly gorgeous detective inspector without doing something, and he refused to give in. He had made a fool of himself enough over the weekend and was not about to give Gregory another chance to laugh at him. Exhaling a cloud of blue-grey smoke, Mycroft stared out at the city below, a look of melancholy on his tired face. This was what came of being loose. This was what came of relaxing in another's presence.

"I'm sorry." The voice came from behind him, and Mycroft gasped a little, turning around swiftly. Greg stood on the patio in his tshirt and shorts, his legs and feet bare, his face contrite and ashamed. He held his hand out for a cigarette, speaking softly, the night air rustling the silver atop his head. "I shouldn't have done that. Your brother.. he pushes my buttons."

Mycroft shook his head, holding the case out to the silver haired man. "It was not your fault. I shouldn't have let the situation get so out of hand. He was right, anyway. I have been getting lax." Mycroft turned back to the railing and returned the case to his pocket once his companion had taken one. "I should thank you for doing that. It was unexpected. Thank you."

Greg leaned on the railing next to him, lighting up and letting out a low, sensual, satisfied moan. "Oh, fuck that's good," he groaned, drawing on the fag once more and holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before he let it out, very slowly. "Bloody hell. Sometimes I wonder why I quit." His bare forearm brushed Mycroft's sleeve, and he exhaled, hanging his head a little. "I don't think you're lax," he mumbled, puffing on the cigarette. "Sherlock's just... being a tit."

Mycroft shook his head once more, smiling a little. "Thank you, but I know when my brother is right. I need a break." He hung his head and flicked ash from the butt of his cigarette. Gregory was trying to cheer him up. Perhaps it was returning the favour of last night. Perhaps it was because he was a genuinely nice person. As odd as that seemed. He was a rarity in Mycroft's life. A nice person.

"Why don't you go on holiday?" Lestrade looked over at him, once again struck by the soft, unreal quality of his face in the moonlight. Mycroft... was a strikingly attractive man. Greg studied him, fascinated by this discovery, and he wondered how many other people in the world walked by him every day, at work, in the street, and never noticed. "You should take a holiday, Mycroft."

"I am. After we get back. I am taking a sabbatical." He stubbed the cigarette out on the rod iron railing and flicked it to the ground, lighting another. "I haven't decided where I will go yet, but somewhere with a beach. Somewhere warm." He inhaled gratefully on the fag and sighed. It felt like running away, but Mycroft was a smart enough man to know when he needed a break. Not that he always listened to that knowledge, but in this instance, time and space were the two things he needed most. Especially when it came to Gregory Lestrade. "Hawaii, perhaps. The Bahamas." He shrugged and stifled a yawn.

"Oh, hell yeah, that sounds nice." Greg grinned, stubbing his cigarette out and gazing up at the stars, his teeth white against a tan face. "Lying naked on a beach, swimming in the ocean, drinking, sleeping in, eating whatever the hell I want... Damn, I think I need a holiday." He chuckled, letting his eyes close as he pictured it. Last time he'd been on holiday, it was with the wife, and.. it hadn't been much of a vacation. He'd spent the entire time waiting for her as she shopped, got facials, and booked helicopter tours which he didn't even want. He wanted to lie back. Read. Sleep. Shag. Oh, yes, shag.

As if on cue, a stifled groan drifted from the next room, and the two men on the balcony froze. Greg rolled his eyes. "They've started already," he grunted, shuffling back to their hotel room. He turned, looking over his shoulder at his companion, and without thinking, the words spilled out. "Coming to bed, Mycroft?"

Mycroft flushed red, his half burned cigarette falling from his fingers as the words crashed into him. "I... ah, yes." He hurriedly picked up the cigarette and stubbed it out. Coming to bed? Like they were a... a... couple. Logically it was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. After all they were sleeping together, not that they were having sexual intercourse, he reminded himself, but they would be sleeping in the same bed. For the second night in a row. So really it was an understandable thing to say. Just... he felt hyper sensitive right at that moment. Mycroft let the trepidations he felt fall to the ground with his cigarette and followed Gregory to the bed. From the other side of the room he could hear Sherlock moan out loudly, accompanied by John's shouts. Hell. Those were not the sounds he wanted accompanying his slumber tonight.

Greg was pulling back the blankets, when he glanced up at Mycroft's face. It was tight, drawn, irritated. He winked at him once, then marched across the room to rap smartly at the separating door. The scuffling and moaning ceased for a moment. "Sherlock... if you want to keep your bollocks intact, you'll keep it down," Greg warned. He thought he heard a snarling curse from the other side, but a moment later, John's breathless voice shouted out an apology, and the inspector returned to the large bed, triumphant. "There. That should do it."

Mycroft nodded his thanks, still mute. He waited for Gregory to climb into the bed before gingerly settling in himself, lying as far from the detective inspector as he could. Even from this far away he could still feel the heat from the man's body and his own ached to be closer, to touch and soak it up. But he sat, unmoving. "The lights, if you would." Mycroft felt like growling in annoyance. His voice was a little more gravelly, lower, slightly more breathy. It wasn't very discernible, but he noticed even if no one else would. The difference to his usual tone was loud in his ears and it made him angry.

Greg reached up for the lamp, switching it off, and he stayed there, propped on his elbow, looking down at Mycroft with curiosity and a touch of awe on his face. "You know," he whispered into the dark, looking intently at the moonbeams on Mycroft's chestnut, wispy hair. "I don't know everything that's happened to you, but... Sherlock had no right to say those things to you. You're the least selfish person I know, and... I'm glad. I'm glad you call me for things like this. I'm glad… when you need someone, you call me. Don't stop, all right?" He felt strangely emotional, strangely fond of the man in his bed. He reached out, tentatively touching his arm.

Mycroft swallowed hard, the warmth from Gregory's fingers pooling on his arm and sending jolts to his brain. "I... ah.. I... thank you." He licked his lips and stared up at the inspector, his throat scratchy. "That's... thank you." He didn't know what else to say. What else could he say? Thank you, I never will? Let's have sex? You're bloody gorgeous, you know that? He touched the back of Gregory's hand with two fingers. "Thank you."

The smooth pads of Mycroft's fingers touched his knuckles, and Greg stalled, his hand sinking firmly onto the bicep. He'd fully intended to give him a friendly pat, then withdraw his hand and go to sleep, but... now, with the silken, cool fingers on the back of his rough hewn hand, Greg found he did not want to move. He wanted to stay, and let them touch his knuckles. He wanted to turn his hand over and let them tickle his palm. He wanted...to scoot closer. He did. He inched his entire body over to the middle of the bed, wrapping his strong hand around Mycroft's shoulder and smiling down at the ethereal face in the dim light. He chewed on his lower lip, memorizing the innocent peace of that aquiline face, before the sun came up and aged and worried it once more. Tonight, as he had been the night previous, Mycroft was young and lovely and unburdened. Greg rather liked him this way. He looked so lonely, and so lost. Just like him. One thumb reached up, and dragged its way down the smooth cheek, the inspector's breath hitching.

Mycroft let out a ragged breath and clenched his hand into a fist, knowing he should push the man away. Fully intending to shove him off and hurry to the sofa where he would spend the night safely away from the enchanting man, Mycroft lifted his hand to begin the motion. But his hand did not listen to him, instead it rested on Gregory's. Only for a second, then he sat up, his back to the silver haired man. "I, sorry. Excuse me. It would be better if I slept on the sofa." He stammered out, getting up and pulling on his robe once more. Armour against the onslaught of desire. "I apologise. It's late." Colour flooded his cheeks. How stupid! Idiotic! Sherlock had been right. He was far gone. Too hard up.

"Wait." Greg caught his sleeve, pulling him back towards the bed again. He was perched on his knees, eyes wide as he turned Mycroft around to face him, his heart slamming in his chest. Shit. Had he just seen what he thought he'd seen? Mycroft Holmes, pink faced, chest heaving, eyes averted...

Oh bloody hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs and kisses to all of you who were kind enough to take the time to R&R. I swear you are our life blood. We adore you all and wouldn't be half as motivated if it weren't for the reviews.


	6. When Humanity Takes the Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to resist any longer, Mycroft finally succumbs to his human side... but to what consequences?

"Wait," he repeated, the blood rushing in his ears as he pulled Mycroft closer, lifting his chin to gaze in the troubled, turquoise eyes as he knelt on the edge of the bed, their chests nearly touching. "Please sleep with me," he whispered in his face, letting him feel the ghosting warmth of his breath on his cheeks. "Don't sleep on the sofa."

Mycroft shook his head, completely mortified. "No. I shouldn't. I need to go. I am sorry." He kept apologising, making excuses, staying put. It was horrible. Scarring. When had he turned into such a weak willed person? When had he become so loose tongued? It was all Gregory's fault. He needed to get away. Needed that break. Needed to leave. "I need to go." Tonight. Get on a plane. Leave. Go anywhere but here. Here was dangerous. He pushed once more, vowing never to let himself fall this hard again. It was horrifying.

The hand plucking at Mycroft's plush, burgundy robe tightened, and the other rough hand moved to settle on the tall man's shoulder, holding him in place as Greg searched his miserable face. "Where are you going?" he breathed, tilting his head curiously as Mycroft stood before him, refusing to meet his eyes. "Why do you keep apologising? Why don't you just..." Greg took a deep, calming breath, and let his thumb graze the long, pale neck that rose out of the velvet collar. "Come to bed?" The words came out huskily, but he wasn't paying attention. The only thing he could concentrate on was the gooseflesh scattering up the ghostly flesh, and the gust of warm air that escaped Mycroft's thin lips. He was so delicate and frightened.. like a baby bird. Greg nudged closer, his palm slowly moulding to the back of his neck.

"Why won't you let me go?" Mycroft's strangled voice was barely above a miserable whisper as he clenched his fists together. "Surely by now you've realised why I am apologising. Why I ought to leave. I will not take advantage." He stood there, his heart rat-tatting against his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Still refusing to meet the other man's eyes, to even look at him, all Mycroft had to go on was the feel of Gregory's hands on his body. The way the skin on his neck felt, the warmth that emanated from it. "Let me go now. It is the only possible solution in which both of us retain our dignity and some semblance of an amicable relationship." Mycroft stiffened, waiting for the grip to relax. Surely Gregory would see that the act of sleeping with him, even if it was purely innocent, would strain them both. He knew full well what the husky sound in the detective inspector's voice meant, but he refused to allow Gregory to do anything he would regret the next day. He refused to take advantage of a lonely, sad, desperate man. Because one would have to be desperate to even entertain the thought of touching Mycroft Holmes the Ice Man intimately.

Greg kissed him. It was an act of absolute spontaneity, but the moment Mycroft stiffened, it was the only thing that he could think of doing to catch the man off guard, to force a reaction, a genuine reaction, and to satisfy the burning of his brain. This it did quite effectively. He surged forward, surprising the other man, his hand on the back of Mycroft's neck dragging him to meet his mouth.

Greg's lips parted, gasping a little as he tasted Mycroft's skin, his mouth, the shock in his sharp inhalation, and the inspector let himself fall into the moment. His fingers wound up the soft hair. His eyes fluttered closed, and he analysed the taste, the feel of the other man in his arms. It was not unpleasant. It felt... natural, and thrilling, and the burning ache in his core quieted a bit as he pulled back, blinking owlishly at him. Mycroft stood before him, frozen, his eyes lidded and blank. Greg made a small, frustrated noise, and leaned in again, kissing him once more, slowly. He ran the tip of his tongue over the firm lips, and his heart sped up. One hand wrapped around a bony hip, pulling him closer as Lestrade kissed the set mouth, again, and again, gently, affectionately.

At the sixth kiss Mycroft could no longer stand it. He felt himself relax, felt his arms slip around Lestrade's neck, felt his mouth open invitingly. A soft moan sounded as he felt the man's tongue begin to search his mouth, exploring it curiously. He closed his eyes, hands tightening around Gregory's shirt for just two seconds before he pushed away. Breathing hard he touched his lips in a swift, unconscious movement, as though trying to remember the firm pressure of the detective inspector's lips once more. "No." He gasped, clutching the robe to him tightly, thin sheath of armour against the world. "Can't you... you're making a huge mistake, Gregory, and I won't allow you to. I will not allow it." But he didn't move. He wanted to, mostly, but he didn't. Couldn't. Not yet.

"I'm making a mistake?" He stared at Mycroft, and with a swift, violent movement, he was off of the bed and stalking towards the dignified man, a feral gleam in his eyes. He stood before him, mere inches away, and Greg lifted his chin defiantly, eyes bright and narrow. The city lights danced in them as he leaned forward, hissing, "I've never been with a bloke before, either, Mycroft Holmes. But I'm not running." From the room next door, a low, sobbing cry sounded, muffled, as if Sherlock were shouting into a pillow. John's answering rumble replied unintelligibly, and Greg fixed Mycroft with a steely gaze. "Doesn't sound so bad," he whispered fervently, and when Mycroft took a shuddering breath, his teal eyes flicking to the door, Greg snorted. "You go on, then, Mycroft. But I'm not the one making the mistake." Brown hands pushed suddenly at his waist, and the shorts fell to the floor, followed quickly by the tight tshirt... and Gregory Lestrade stood in the moonlight, naked, half hard, tanned, and quite beautiful. "You are."

Mycroft took in the nude body before him and a guttural noise arose from his throat. He put a hand to his mouth, trying to stop it, but it was too late. Blue eyes fell to the stiffening shaft between Gregory's legs and he felt an answering bulge in his own trousers. "I..." Mycroft's throat was dry as he tried to speak. "I..." how long had it been? How long since he'd touched someone intimately? How long had it been since he had touched a man intimately? Then he remembered. Either. Gregory had said either. Mycroft licked his lips. How could he possibly tell him that in his youth he had not been confined to the social norms and had experimented quite thoroughly? There was no possible way. "N..not a mistake..." He meant it as a statement, a strong, bold one, but it came out weak and unsure. How he wanted to touch the man in front of him. How he wanted to reach out and feel the warm, brown skin.

It felt comfortable. Smooth against his hand.

Mycroft inhaled sharply, his eyes widening as he saw his hand already resting on Gregory's chest. Eyes round with horror, he dragged his gaze to meet Gregory's. Terrified of what he might find there.

Greg looked back down at him, fondness radiating from his brown eyes. His hand reached up to fold over Mycroft's, and slowly, with deliberation and care, he moved it down, down his pectorals, down his firm stomach, back up again, letting the other man feel the heat of his flesh. He stepped closer, once more inclining his head to graze his lips over Mycroft's, but he did not kiss him.. not yet. He hovered there, one hand wrapped over Mycroft's, the other sliding to rest on his hip, and he shared his breath, their noses brushing. "Kiss me," he whispered softly, shivering in the cool, crisp air. This moment should have been a hell of a lot more awkward. He should be ashamed and full of dread and fear. He was not. The prospect of crawling into that massive, comfortable bed and touching and being touched by Mycroft Holmes was... well, intoxicating. He wanted it. Now.

"That's... not fair..." Mycroft protested, but he closed the distance between their lips despite his words. His other hand followed Gregory's lead, reaching across to touch the man's hip. The callused hand on his caused sparks to fire off in his brain, sparks that quickly began shutting down every defence he could muster against the raw beauty that was a naked Gregory Lestrade. And why not give in? Surely he deserved one night of passion and enjoyment after the gruelling past six months. Even if Gregory never wanted to speak to him again, what did that matter? It wasn't as though they were particularly close. He would go off on his sabbatical and when he came back the whole matter would be forgotten. Gregory would have stricken it from his memory and they could go back to their old ways. Tolerating one another. Mycroft refused to acknowledge the tiny shriek his heart made at the thought, squashing it immediately. This had nothing to do with foolish emotions and everything to do with the fact that Mycroft hadn't had a shag in over ten years.

Greg felt it the moment Mycroft gave in completely. The kiss was suddenly urgent, hungry, and the fingers on his chest clawed deep in his flesh, making him cry out. A warm tongue slid inside his mouth, and the detective inspector groaned, wrapping both strong arms around the slender waist and hauling him up, off the floor. He dragged him backwards to the bed, devouring the open mouth, his hands moving to cup the tight buttocks as Lestrade panted, and he grappled with the robe, pulling it from Mycroft's shoulders. "Sleep with me?" he asked once more, breathlessly, pulling him to the mattress as he knelt on it again.

"Yes." Mycroft answered breathily, pushing Gregory down on the bed and crawling over him, once more devouring his mouth. "Yes, damn you." He began to nip at the man's jaw, running his tongue up and down Lestrade's neck, thoroughly enjoying the salty tang of skin against his tongue. "Damn you. I don't know how. All of my defences.." Mycroft wasn't making too much sense anymore, but he didn't care. This wasn't about making sense. Obviously. Because if it had been then he wouldn't be in this situation right now. One hand shot out and flicked the light switch, encasing the room in a soft darkness. Now he could be fully comfortable.

"Hell." Greg muttered quiet curses in the dark as he fumbled with Mycroft's clothes, their hands getting tangled, their legs sliding against one another as he worked desperately to disrobe the man. What the hell had gotten into him? He'd never shagged a bloke before, but then again, he'd never shared a bed with one either, and he'd never shared so much of himself with one either, and... maybe there was a reason he jumped when Mycroft called. Maybe... somewhere, lurking beneath the surface, he'd wanted to touch him, to hold him, to open him up and see what made him tick. Maybe this wasn't so far off. Greg grunted in triumph as the trousers and shorts finally fell to the side, and he picked his prey up bodily, settling him between his legs and wasting no time in pulling him down for another searing, wet, sloppy kiss as he lined their hips up. "There," he whispered into his mouth, and canted up once, letting Mycroft feel how hard, how aching and hot he was. The man shuddered, gasping, and Greg threw his head back, opening his thighs and letting the lean, naked body slide in between them. "Oh, yeah," he croaked out, and slowly began a rolling, wave like rhythm, his hands wandering the pale body.

Mycroft shuddered as he felt the evidence of Gregory's arousal rubbing up against his naked flesh. He knew before asking that there would be no lubricant. Nothing to ease the passage. What could be done? He whimpered a little, his own hands reaching up and feeling the strong ridges of Gregory's back, exploring, searching. All the while he rocked into the hard body of his companion, the friction causing his pupils to dilate. Finally, unable to take it any longer, the elder Holmes brother grasped both of their cocks in a thin fingered hand and began rubbing them together, delighting at the sharp hiss it elicited from the silver haired man above him. This would have to do. Mycroft reached up and kissed Gregory once more, grasping at his neck, bringing him closer. This would have to do.

Ohh, fuck, Mycroft read his mind. He read his damned mind. Greg wasn't sure why he was surprised... he'd seen the Holmes boys read minds for years now, but the moment that smooth, cool hand wrapped around his cock, his entire world turned upside down. He'd forgotten. Forgotten how good it felt to do something rash, to let go and feel, to be wonderfully caught up in a moment, a person. Their eyes met, and Greg widened his stance, his hands gripping Mycroft's thighs, and he groaned and panted, rocking his hips up into the firm, velvety grip. He could feel the ridges of the slender, long cock rubbing up against his own, and he let his mouth fall open, his moans growing louder. "Sh..shit, yes, just... just like that. Fuuck. Oh, fuck, yes, tug on it... Hell yes." His trembling, brown fingers reached between their legs, and with each hand he began to roll their balls, pulling gently, his eyes never leaving Mycroft's. They burned, dark and deep, his cheeks crimson as he felt the heat spreading throughout his body, radiating from his gut. The pleasure was immense, poignant, and overwheming.

Mycroft's lips fell open as he stared into the dark brown eyes above him. He was beginning to question the fifty or more reasons he had for not seeking out sexual intercourse. With every moan from his companion and every caress to his testicles, Mycroft felt the world grow fuzzy. Rather like the odd sensation of being just a little too inebriated. It was glorious, freeing, yet at the same time completely captivating. "Gregory," he whispered, running a thumb along the hyper sensitive rim of Gregory's cock head, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin as the man made a low, hungry sound. "Gregory." He said again, quite unable and unwilling to say anything else. Anything more... incriminating.

"Don't stop that.. don't stop.." Greg was not at all above begging. He'd not had a shag in months, and had never rutted about with a bloke, and hell. It was a turn on. Mycroft was... pretty without his clothes on. He devoured him with his eyes, beginning to convulse as the sensation of that smooth thumb on the head of his cock sent shockwaves throughout his nervous system. He looked up into the porcelain face, and stilled, lying frozen on the bed, pleasure still curling his toes as he blinked up at the man, his heart slamming.

Greg wanted him. He wanted this, but not just tonight... he wanted it tomorrow night as well, wanted to make Mycroft tremble and cry, wanted him to relax and come undone, wanted to break down the walls and take away the worry that burdened him each and every day, if only for a few hours. A few hours in Gregory's bed, and perhaps... perhaps they could both let go of the pain a little at a time. Greg bucked up again, reaching to pull him into a long, slow, warm embrace, their tongues twisting together, his teeth catching Mycroft's lip. The tall man was right.. words weren't necessary. They moved together sinuously on the bed, settling at last side by side, Mycroft's leg wrapped around Greg's hip. Greg held it there, their cocks lined up, and they kissed, long and sweet, until Greg could no longer breathe. His orgasm was building, building, taking over his every nerve. "M..Mycroft.." he warned softly, writhing in his embrace.

Mycroft nodded, clinging tightly to the tanned man with one arm. "Yes... me... too." He croaked, biting on Gregory's lower lip, his eyes shutting tightly. His climax came blasting through him, twisting his insides in a euphoric pleasure, one that seemed more intense and longer than any of his previous memory. It blew every other orgasm completely out of the race. He arched off the bed and into Lestrade's firm body, thick streams of cum landing between them. The hand around their pricks tightened and soon he felt Gregory's as well, unloading fully. He smiled a little as a hoarse shout ripped from the silver haired man's throat. It was fulfilling to know that one's partner was receiving the same amount of pleasure. "G...Gregory!" Mycroft buried his face in the detective inspector's neck, sobbing and moaning quietly.

"I know... f..fuck, I know." Greg petted the back of his head, his chest still heaving with the force of his orgasm. Hell. All they'd done was wank a little, and he was shaking from head to toe with the power of it. It reverberated in him still, sending his limbs jerking as he attempted to gather Mycroft into his strong arms, pulling the blankets up to cover the shaking body. For a moment, they lay together, trembling and wheezing, then they both jumped, startled, as a loud rap sounded on the door between the rooms.

"Hey! Keep it down in there, we're trying to sleep!" John did not even attempt to hide the snickering. His voice was thick with ironic amusement.

"Shut up!" Greg shouted back, grumbling under his breath as the little doctor laughed, and his footsteps shuffled away.

Greg glanced down at Mycroft, still hiding his face in his broad chest. "Sorry about that, it's probably my fault. I shouldn't have manhandled Sherlock, I'll probably pay for that later."

Mycroft did not say a word. He was too mortified to speak. He did not want to show his face to anyone. This had been... a horrible idea. It had been the single most pleasurable experience in his life to date, and already he regretted it. Why... why was Gregory so damn perfect? All the bloody little imperfections made him altogether too appetizing for words, and this one tiny taste left Mycroft's mouth watering for more, especially since he knew the very notion of more would be denied from hence forth. He clutched Gregory tightly for a few moments longer, memorizing the feel of his muscular body, before pushing away and turning his back to the man. Hopefully that would signify his "lack of interest".

Greg stared at him, frowning, and he pushed up on his elbows. "Mycroft?"

"Go to bed." Came Mycroft's muffled reply as he pulled the blankets up over his head. "We wake up early tomorrow."

"Oh. Right." Greg reclined back, folding his arms over his chest, glancing at the pale man with a sad sigh. He should have guessed that actually sleeping together would be out of the question... Mycroft was not a cuddler. He settled in the blankets, his back to his companion, brow drawn. "Goodnight." Damn, he wished he could have kept the strain from his throat... but it wouldn't have mattered. Mycroft was the master of deduction. He must have known that Greg was saddened by the cold shoulder. He just didn't care. Greg lay, his fist curled by his face, eyes staring off into the blackness. He felt cold. Five minutes after the best orgasm of his life... and he felt cold, and alone.

Mycroft heard the pain in Gregory's voice and he told himself that he was satisfied. That this was absolutely how it should be. After all, he would be leaving the next day. Gregory shifted about and curled in on himself, and Mycroft relented, unable to hold back. What was one more piece of him? He rolled around and slid his arms around Gregory's back, unable to keep himself from doing so. "Don't say a word." He warned, resting his forehead against the warm back. "Or I will sack you." It was a mostly empty threat, but hell, Mycroft wouldn't have been able to keep from kissing and holding Gregory to his breast if he spoke in that kicked puppy way again. It was bloody embarrassing and damn annoying.

Greg nodded, and turned his body to face his new lover, bending to kiss his mouth tenderly. He let Mycroft engulf him, nestling his nose in the fragrant neck, and he yawned, raining kisses up and down his throat. His eyelashes brushed the sensitive skin, and he held him around his waist tightly, letting the lids close. This.. this was much, much better. This was what he missed. This was what he craved. And bloody hell. Greg would never have expected to find it in this man's arms. But he welcomed it, and noted just before he drifted away that this was the fastest he'd fallen asleep in many, many years. His feet found Mycroft's, and caressed them once before Greg began to quietly snore.

It took Mycroft much longer to fall asleep. He wouldn't let himself. Not yet. Wanting to savour the feeling just a little longer. But in the end sleep won the struggle and Mycroft's eyelids closed heavily, his arms tightening around Gregory's body just once before they slacked and he went limp. This was the most comfortable he'd felt in a very long time, especially in another person's company. It felt good. Very good. And as sleep overtook him, he had somehow forgotten about the plan to wake up early and leave.

It was dim in the room, so dim that Mycroft did not register the time at all. He was warm and comfortable and, happily, feeling lazy. He continued to slumber in the warm haze until he felt a movement, like someone getting out of bed. He cracked open his eyes and sniffed, wrinkling his nose. It smelled like stale sex. Not a pleasant scent. Then his eyes opened wider. He sat bolt upright, a look of panic on his face. What time was it? He snatched at his mobile. 10:34. "Oh... fuck." Why hadn't his alarm gone off? Why hadn't... come to think of it he seemed to remember the buzzing sound, but it had shut off and he hadn't been awake enough to think anything of it. And... where the hell was Gregory? Mycroft looked about, then his eyes fell on the loo door. Ah. He groaned again. What a foolish mistake! How could he have let himself go like that?

The toilet flushed, and the shower started, and as Mycroft sat, thunderstruck and quiet, an off-key whistle sounded from behind the closed door. It was lilting, and cheerful, and swiftly drowned out by Greg's rumbling voice as he sang to himself. In the next room, there was nothing but silence. Sherlock and John were already downstairs then, no doubt enjoying a late breakfast after their nocturnal activities.

Mycroft sat and waited for ten minutes. And when it still seemed like Gregory had no intention of exiting the loo, he slid off the bed and pulled on his robe, wrapping it around his body tightly. With a deep breath, he trudged across the room and opened the door to the loo. "Excuse me. I will be out in a few moments." He called out, picking up his toothbrush and a few products. He could catch a flight to Maui by the next morning, but first he would have to clear his schedule.

"Hey!" Greg's head poked out from behind the opaque silver shower curtain, dripping wet and flushed with the hot water. Mycroft froze, his hands hovering over his toiletries by the sink, and the tanned face grinned at him, lips spreading wide over white teeth. "Morning," Greg said with a wink, and raised his eyebrows. "Need a shower?"

"After you are finished, yes." Mycroft smiled tightly and looked away from the pink faced, bright eyed man, determined not to succumb to the general charm of Gregory Lestrade. It just wasn't right that one man could have such a bloody dazzling personality. Completely unnatural!

A warm, wet, steaming hand shot out from the curtain, pulling it back just enough for Mycroft to get a glance in the mirror at the muscled, firm body behind. "You won't have any hot water left," Greg murmured, his fingers closing around the velveteen forearm. "You can slip in now if you like." His expression was seductive and mischievous, and if Mycroft was paying attention, which he always was, slightly hopeful. The detective inspector left no room for speculation that he meant for Mycroft to join him.

"I don't... showers are very private..." Mycroft protested, feeling his cheeks heat up. Which was clearly from the steam. Yes. But soon he found himself disrobed and tugged along into the shower, despite his feeble objections. "I don't shower with people." He mumbled in disgruntled tones as the water sprayed down on his head. Just the right temperature. Damn it all. Bloody hell, the elder Holmes brother thought to himself as he stared at the ground, even Gregory's feet were attractive. Senile. That was it. He was becoming senile. The only explanation for his sudden inability to have any willpower whatsoever when it came to the detective inspector.

The desire to put his hands on Mycroft's body, to make him tremble and pant was inexplicable. Greg only knew that it was here, and it was powerful, and he was going to obey it. He backed the naked, uncomfortable man into the tiled wall, and took the bird like, nervous face in both of his hands. "Stop thinking so much," he whispered, and kissed the gasping lips gently. Their bodies pressed together in the heat, and he rubbed his chest and stomach against Mycroft's, catching his breath, nibbling on the lower lip with a grunt. Hell, Greg didn't know what was happening any more than Mycroft did. Was it frightening? Yes. Was it mad? Assuredly. But it felt good, and last night had felt good, and... right now, rubbing his cock on the bony hip felt good. He let his hands trail down his torso, settling on the lean thighs, and Greg began petting them, sliding his fingers to the sensitive, soft flesh of the inner thigh, his mouth moving to the noble jawline.

Mycroft moaned, canting his hips lightly into Gregory's body. The firm cock pressing against him felt... marvellous. Perfect. "Not think... that's preposterous." Gregory ground into him again, harder, his hands becoming more and more intrusive and sensual, his lips moulding to Mycroft's neck. "B..but I suppose I shall make an exception... just this once." He gasped, letting his own hands travel the expanse of Lestrade's back, tangling in his wet hair. Just one more time. It wasn't as if he would be doing any more harm. It wasn't as if they would fall in love, or that Gregory would become infatuated with just one more sexual encounter. Mycroft leaned fully against the wall, widening his legs a little, allowing for easier access to the soft skin of his inner thighs. "Just this once." He repeated firmly.

Greg pulled back a moment, studying the familiar face with lidded, dark eyes. He twisted his mouth, perhaps in disappointment, perhaps in resignation, then lowered his head to bury his mouth in the crook of Mycroft's neck once more. "All right," he whispered, latched onto the skin there, and skated his right hand between the spread legs, letting the fingertips graze his arse hole briefly. Both hands gripped his hips then, and Greg began to grind him hard into the wall, their cocks sliding, rubbing, pressing into one another. The warm, soft mouth kneaded and sucked at the long neck, Greg's morning stubble scratching his skin as the inspector's breath became laboured.

Mycroft grabbed his companion's arse, kneading it about as he rocked back, pulling him almost impossibly close. "You..." he whispered into Gregory's neck, sucking on the hollow with a great deal of fervour. "You are too beautiful for me to express." It was, perhaps, a foolish, sentimental thing to say, but it was true. Mycroft did not think there was a word strong enough in any language to express how attractive the detective inspector was. He found it absurd that anyone could have left him. His wife, Mycroft concluded, must have been a great fool. If Gregory was his... he would never, ever let him go. Gregory was far too precious.

Greg wanted to respond, but he was too blown away, from the words Mycroft had just spoken, and from the almost unbelievable pleasure that rolled over him with every thrust of the slender man's cock against his own. Shit, if he'd known it felt this good to wank and rut with another bloke, he'd probably have shagged a few by now. And Mycroft... fuck. Mycroft was quite pretty without his clothes on. Mycroft was vulnerable, sweet, destitute, and Greg was having a hell of a good time making the pristine man dirty. Because Mycroft was dirty. Greg could see it now, could see it as their eyes met and he swooped in to push his tongue inside his mouth. Mycroft was a dirty, fierce, sex deprived animal that needed to be played with, and frequently. The tall, silver haired man pulled his lover's thighs apart, and bucked into his groin as one hand crept between the arse cheeks, stroking very slowly, very lazily, at the twitching pucker beneath. Greg's tongue plundered deep into Mycroft's mouth, flattening against the wet muscle as he groaned aloud.

Mycroft's entire body reacted as he felt the fingers brushing against his arsehole, this time more insistent, more than just a brief pet. This was reoccurring and full of intent. He choked a little and ground back against the fingers, hands shooting out behind him to steady himself against the wall. A strong reaction, but not surprising, he mused. Considering he'd not had it up the bum since his university days. And that had only been once. The pleasure had been so terrifying that he refused to allow it to happen another time. Yet now, once more, his previous objections seemed to appear somewhat nonsensical. Prudish. Uneducated. "Yo..u should stop... that." He groaned, regaining his composure as the digits continued their slow circut. "It's not very nice of you." The thin arms slid once more around Gregory's neck and he began to kiss him once more, in earnest. He could feel the pleasure mounting. The gyrations and stimulations were satisfying. Maybe not completely satisfying, but still... it was good enough for now.

"Stop what?" Greg asked breathlessly, their bodies and arms and legs so tangled that he could not extricate himself, even if he wanted to. "Snogging you?" He kissed him deeply, tilting his head back, thrusting his tongue in and tasting every single centimetre of the wonderful mouth. "Rubbing our cocks?" he whispered into the kiss, and took both organs in hand, stroking them together as Mycroft had done the night previous. The man in his arms wailed, his neck thrown back and Greg took advantage. He dove in, sinking his pearly teeth into the porcelain throat, growling as his thumb pressed insistently on his hot, flexing pucker. "Or should I stop doing this?" he asked, tugging at a fragrant earlobe. Why the fuck did Mycroft always smell so good? The grip on his back tightened, and Greg cried out sharply as the beginnings of an orgasm unfurled in his groin. "Ohhh, Mycroft, I'm close.."

Mycroft lifted one leg, wrapping it around Gregory's waist. "Yes. That." He whimpered, his actions belying his words as he ground down against the thumb, the friction from Gregory's hands proving too much for his endurance as he shot into the man's hand, clinging onto him and arching his body. The hot water sprayed down on them, washing away his cum even as it landed on their bodies. Mycroft's body convulsed several times before he was finished. One hand drifted to their cocks and he took Gregory's up, rubbing at it for a few moments before he sank to his knees and ran the tip of his nose along the length. "Then cum." He said softly, engulfing the stiff organ with his mouth.

Greg shouted hoarsely, his gravelly voice loud and rising above the pelting shower. He grabbed the soft, wet tufts of hair atop Mycroft's head, and he rammed into the perfect sweetness of that decadent mouth twice before he exploded, crying out shrilly. Never, never could he have imagined this moment... and now that it was here, he could not imagine having lived without it. He wanted this... again and again. He wanted to fuck him, and suck him, and feel that tongue on his entire body. He wanted to shove his dick in the tight arse, he wanted to know what it was like to fuck Mycroft Holmes, hard, fast, and make him scream.

Just this once... that's what Mycroft had said...

Greg sagged to the floor, gasping, and before Mycroft could run away again, he took his face in his hands and kissed him beneath the water, tasting his cum in his mouth.

Mycroft returned the kiss, his hands covering Gregory's. "I'm not going to run away." He murmured breathlessly once they'd broken apart. "Not yet, at least." A small smile flitted across his face and he leaned his head on the man's shoulder. He should be going. Should be pushing him off and getting out of the shower. But he did not want to move. Right now he just wanted to stay with Gregory and get breakfast. Maui would come later. The problems would come later. Consequences would come later. All Mycroft wanted to do was relax. He was tired and, much to his chagrin, lonely.

Greg smoothed the hair from Mycroft's forehead, and stood with a grunt, shutting the water off and pulling his companion to his feet. They stood in the stall, steam rising about them, and slowly, their eyes met. Greg licked his lips, shifting a little, his hand still holding Mycroft's shyly. There were questions he wanted answers to. But now was not the time. He pecked him lightly on the lips, and tugged a plush purple towel from a rack, wrapping it about Mycroft's shoulders. "Come on," he murmured. "We should eat." He was starved.

"Yes, I think that would be advisable." Mycroft quickly dried himself off, leaving the towel on his head, like a sort of hood. "And you ought to drink more liquids." He cleared his throat and walked quickly to the door. "After expending that much ejaculate your body will need to replenish." And with that he shut the door behind him, making his way for his bag and the clothing that would be inside it.

Greg stared after him, and shook his head. Some things would never change... despite everything else that did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! They've had some sexy times, but they HAVEN'T DONE THE DEED YET. I suppose we will all have to wait for the next chapter to find out what happens! Thank you all for those amazing, brilliant, wonderful, awesome reviews. You people are the cheese on our crackers, and we are so grateful to you all for the lovely responses! Thank you. There are just three more chapters left in our story, and we hope you enjoy them all and leave us many, many more delicious reviews!


	7. And So the Trip Comes to an End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their task now completed, Mycroft and Gregory begin the journey home. But as they near London, Gregory decides to take a little detour... not wanting the trip to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAH! Thank you ALL so much for the wonderful reviews! We're so glad that you fellows liked the last chapter! More fun banter in this chapter, which we hope you enjoy as well. This fanfiction is a pet favourite of mine, and it has been since we first wrote it. It makes me happy to see that there are loads of other people who enjoy it as much as we did.

"Stop that." John's fork scraped over his plate, gathering the last remnants of his tomatoes and eggs, and he nudged Sherlock's foot under the table. The detective threw him an indignant glare, the silver eyes flashing, but his small lover only lifted one eyebrow, pursing his lips and glancing at the door. "You're sulking, Sherlock. Stop fretting over them, and eat your breakfast. You haven't even touched your capers." He eyed the untouched plate, as if trying to decide whether or not to consume Sherlock's breakfast as well as his own. He was starved. Shagging was a hungry business.

"I don't lake capers." Sherlock grumbled, knowing full well that John knew that was a bold faced lie. He speared half of his fish and four capers, flopping them on John's plate, smirking a little. "There. Touched." Still. The sounds of Mycroft and Gregory's night had not been lost on the detective, and they would not be forgotten for a very long time. He flaked off a few tiny segments of fish and nibbled at it. "I still don't understand it. It's... disgusting." Sherlock picked up his cranberry juice and slurped it down noisily, still pouting.

"Agreed." John attacked the fish with gusto, his grey eyes meeting Sherlock's over the table in the hotel cafe. They twinkled at him as the foot nudged again behind Sherlock's knee, gently this time, catching his attention. John grinned, winking, and the detective smirked back, allowing the contact. "Just leave it," the doctor whispered, reaching across the white cloth to take Sherlock's hand, his thumb rubbing the back of it comfortingly. "They had one night. Everyone makes mistakes. They were bored, and lonely, and... let's face it." John shrugged, his expression adorable and smug. "We sound bloody amazing when we fuck. Maybe they couldn't help it."

Sherlock preened a bit, twisting his hand about and grasping John's. "We do." He agreed, bringing the hand up to his lips and kissing the back of it before licking the tips of three fingers. "Maybe they couldn't." He sighed and lifted one foot, rubbing John's leg in an identical manner. He leaned on his elbows, resting his chin on the heels of his hands. "Want to shag again? In the loo before we leave?" Silvery eyes twinkled and he batted long lashes.

John lifted his eyebrows, his thin lips turning up in a wicked smile as he opened his mouth to respond, but one look at his lover's face stopped him cold. Sherlock was gazing over his shoulder at the door of the restaurant, his nostrils flaring, his facial muscles twitching in disgust. John sighed. He turned in his chair to wave at the duo in the doorway, turning his attention back to the detective's uneaten breakfast.

Greg led the way, his step bouncing a little as he plopped down at their table, stretching his long limbs and eying the plate before John with a bright eye. "How's the food? I'm starved."

"Excellent," John said with his mouth full, motioning for the waiter. He received a swift kick under the table for his efforts, and he glowered at Sherlock, clucking softly under his breath. Sherlock glared back, but John was not cowed. He would not be rude to his friend, just because he was.. shagging Mycroft. John winced at the idea, covering it up with a cough and a drink of orange juice.

"Capers good?"

"Mmhm."

"What about you, Sherlock?" Greg glanced up from the menu he was handed, white teeth flashing cheerily as Mycroft gently lowered himself into the seat opposite. "How's yours?"

Sherlock slouched down in his seat, folding his arms and staring moodily into his plate. He refused to answer.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and ordered a caprese salad, croissant, and coffee. Normally breakfast was not a meal that he consumed, but the activities of the previous night and of a hour ago had roused his appetite quite successfully. The elder Holmes brother glanced over at his brother once more before taking his phone out and flicking through the missed calls. Ten of them. He held back a groan and set his phone on the table. At least he would have an excuse to remove himself from the situation if it got too frustrating.

From the corner of his vision Sherlock saw Mycroft on his mobile and frowned. Mycroft never did that. Never surfed through his camera phone in the middle of a meal with company, even for a few moments... he narrowed his eyes and looked back down at his plate. His brother was perturbed. That encounter last night had clearly been their first, and Mycroft had not expected it. How interesting.

Greg ordered, a breakfast large enough for three men, and John put in an order for more pudding. They spoke in low tones of the case that Sherlock had just been unceremoniously yanked from; in the light of morning, tempers had cooled, and John was quite forthcoming about the details, chatting merrily as if the events of the previous evening had not happened. He occasionally asked Sherlock to supply bits which he did not understand, or could not remember, but the sulking detective only grunted noncommitally, and so John shrugged and went on, pausing only when the food was brought out to their table. The Holmes brothers sat in silence, watching the two other men eat enthusiastically, watching them laugh and talk and continue on, as if the world had not changed, as if it had not completely turned upside down in the last twenty four hours, though it was clear to both brilliant minds that obviously it had. John's ears turned pink as he guffawed at a joke that Greg muttered to him, and the detective inspector ate it up, acting a bit of the fool... and everything was perfectly normal, not a thing out of place. Except the fact that every soul at the table knew that John's foot was kneading Sherlock's crotch beneath the table, and Greg and Mycroft had gotten off together the night before.

Mycroft's mobile phone began to buzz and he stood up immediately. "My apologies. I must take this." He smiled stiffly and walked off, phone in hand.

Sherlock stared after him, his cheeks a little flushed as John's toes dug into his cock in a particularly delightful manner. He watched his older brother as he disappeared from his sight. "Lestrade. What did you do to Mycroft?" The thin man turned to Gregory and stared at him shrewdly. He made a disparaging face as Lestrade turned pink and grinned into his coffee in a knowing manner. "Idiot." Sherlock grumbled and took a reluctant bite of his now stone cold fish. "Something's off..." He murmured to himself, quite curious.

"Why do you care?" Greg placed the cup down on the table, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. He eyed the younger man with a little smirk, drumming his fingers over the sleeve of his sports coat. "You hate him, remember?" Lestrade was pleased. That Sherlock should show concern for his older brother was unprecedented. John was watching him closely as well, and the tell-tale slight movement of the table that gave away the clandestine activities of John's brown loafer ceased. Greg lifted his chin, turning to glance Mycroft's direction. The man was pacing in the lobby, his tall figure occasionally appearing and disappearing just as quickly from their sight. Greg smiled fondly, and turned back to the detective, his eyebrows raised.

"I don't care. Simply curious." Sherlock smiled blandly and took another bite of his fish. "Just one warning, though, Mycroft isn't the sentimental sort. Don't get too... attached." He turned his attention to John and yanked on his collar, pulling him into a kiss. "We need to leave soon. Flight. Sex." The detective released his lover just as Mycroft returned to their table, a slightly more relaxed air about him.

"Sherlock, do try to be somewhat decent in public. It is such a pain to have to clear up after your messes." The elder brother sat down comfortably and sipped at his coffee, swirling the spoon around with an elegant flick of his wrist.

"Who cares about decent?" John murmured, his grey eyes flicking to Sherlock's. The detective caught them, his thick, angelic lips peeling back in a genuine smile, and the pair stood smoothly, excusing themselves, their eyes never leaving one another. Greg watched them as Sherlock tossed a few bills on the table, and they exited the restaurant as quickly as they could manage. The inspector felt a tug in his chest as Sherlock's hand slipped into John's back pocket comfortably, and John's arm crept round his waist. He looked away.. right into a pair of deep, unfathomable turquoise eyes. Greg's throat went dry. "Well," he grunted hoarsely. "They'll never change, eh?"

"No, I don't believe they ever will." Mycroft replied affably. He turned to his food and slowly began to chew in small bites. It was a full ten minutes before he spoke again. "Would you prefer to fly back or will you drive in the car with me? I know you said you needed to get back before Monday and it is already nearly Sunday afternoon." He looked up at Gregory and smiled apologetically. "I do apologise. I did not expect it to be as tedious a process to extract my brother as it turned out to be."

"Are..." Greg cocked his head, returning to his breakfast and eyeing his companion carefully. "Are you driving back? If you're driving, I'll keep you company, Mycroft." He smiled warmly, trying not to appear eager. After all, the man had said just once, and he didn't want to push the issue. He would really prefer if things didn't get awkward and strange. Hell. He could kiss John for not acting like an arse at breakfast. It made his life about a million times easier that the doctor had simply acted as if nothing had happened. And if Mycroft wanted to do that, too, that was fine. Of course, if Mycroft wanted to stop off on the side of the road and get in the back seat and get naked, that was fine as well. He chewed thoughtfully, blinking at the man without a single shred of deception in his honest, tan face.

"Yes, I am. I like to drive when I can, and Morgan has done an excellent job in holding down the fort while I have been away." Mycroft pushed the plate away and leaned back into his chair, draining the rest of his coffee. "You may keep me company if you wish. I won't turn you down." He took out his pocket book and selected a few notes, raising a hand for the waiter to come over. "You aren't nearly as dull as most of the human race." The brunette chuckled a little and accepted the cheque from the smiling waiter. "I shall be leaving as soon as I pay for the rooms. Are you packed?"

"Yeah." Greg rolled his eyes. Mycroft knew very well he was packed. He'd never really even unpacked. In fact, his packing usually consisted of a few things rolled up in an overnight bag that he hardly unzipped. He stood, not bothering to offer to pay for breakfast, because Mycroft wouldn't let him, and hell. Mycroft made a lot more money than he did. He grinned over at the man, and bent close to his face, winking. "You're not as dull as people think you are, either," he said lowly, smiling, and he stood back up swiftly. "Meet you in the lobby!" he called over his shoulder.

Mycroft flushed a little and shook his head, bewildered. Did it matter what people thought of him as long as they did what he said and gave him no trouble? With a sigh he pushed away from the table and made his way to the front desk, umbrella in hand. The gleam in his younger brother's eyes earlier did not bode well for him, he knew full well. Sherlock had something nasty planned for him in retaliation for the previous night. In retaliation for both offences. Firstly for embarrassing him, and second... for shagging one of his friends. Mycroft smiled a little sourly as the woman at the front desk greeted him. People were so loyal to Sherlock, without him even having to try. It was a gift he would never be able to have.

"Checking out, sir?" The posh woman did not crack a smile, her heavy accent punctuated with cool indifference.

"Yes." Mycroft answered, glad of the woman's brusque attitude. "Mycroft Holmes." He inspected his fingernails, but something about the way the woman's eyes widened made him stop.

She blinked at him twice, turned to the computer screen, tapped a few buttons, then her light eyes flicked to him again. She licked her lips, lifted her chin, and coughed. "Mr. Holmes, we shall need... to retain the deposit left on your credit card, and.. additional funds will be needed in order to repair the damage incurred in room 1480." She sniffed haughtily.

Behind him, Greg appeared, smiling broadly. "Everything all right?" he chirped, and the woman made a noise of disdain as she looked him up and down. Greg shifted uncomfortably in his worn jeans and jumper.

Mycroft's jaw tightened and he tapped his fingers on the desk. "Damage. I see." He smiled coldly and nodded. "Yes, very well. Have a pleasant afternoon." Accepting his card back, Mycroft strode off, Gregory close behind him. "They destroyed the room." Was the offered explanation. "I should have known. It was obvious some sort of rebuke would be forthcoming." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. Why was Sherlock so... so childish? He really didn't know how the man had gotten to be like that. It was completely and utterly absurd! "I have a very trying brother, Gregory. He is almost impossible to stand at times."

"Yeah, but he loves you." Greg reached the valet first, and he slipped into the driver's seat of the black sedan before Mycroft could protest. He started the car, waiting for his companion, and he grinned over at the man's doubtful grimace. "He was questioning me about you." Greg's hand moved to Mycroft's knee.

Mycroft's heart sped up slightly as he felt the warmth from Gregory's hand begin to circulate along his leg. "Really? No doubt to glean some information so that he can try to trip me up later." Mycroft laughed, but it wasn't exactly a laugh full of humour. "I have come to terms with the fact that we are not now, nor shall we ever be, close." One of Mycroft's hands rested briefly on Gregory's before returning to the umbrella handle. "It is a small price to pay, however, for my country." He did not look at the silver haired man, he was far too embarrassed by the sight show of affection. Thank god for the ticket he had purchased. All this would be dust in the wind by the time he returned.

Greg laughed, shaking his head, but he did not try to convince Mycroft of the notion that Sherlock might actually care for him. He'd learned long ago not to argue with a Holmes.

The trip was a much quicker one with Gregory behind the wheel. The fourteen hour drive took a mere ten, and to his chagrin, Greg realised as they neared their destination that they were in plenty of time to catch the last ferry of the day. It had been an incredibly pleasant afternoon... they'd talked, talked more than Greg could remember talking to anyone in the last year, about ex-wives, and children, about their jobs, about Sherlock and John.. anything but the incident the night before. Greg was fine with that. He was just pleased to be getting underneath that cold as ice exterior that Mycroft projected so very well. Oddly enough, the conversation seemed to exhaust the man, and so Greg spent the entire ferry ride back to Mother England watching Mycroft doze in the seat beside him. He was pretty when he slept, Lestrade decided. His face was so peaceful, so calm and noble. Something to be admired. And he was not quite ready to say goodbye to it yet. Greg was a smart bloke.. he knew he'd likely never have these moments again. And so when he drove off of the boat, instead of the wheels of the car taking him back to London, Greg slowly pulled into the little inn they'd slept in three nights ago.

Mycroft heard the crunch of gravel and woke with a start. "What?" He sat up and looked about, blinking. "What are we doing here?" He asked, staring at his companion in confusion. "We should be on our way back to London. You need to return to your post, is that not correct?" What ulterior motive did Gregory have this time? It couldn't be that he was simply tired. After all, he could have just roused Mycroft had that been the case. No, there was something else afoot.

"Just.. thought we could kip here tonight. I'll go in a bit late tomorrow morning," Greg mumbled, knowing it was no use lying, but unable to keep from doing it anyway. He stretched dramatically, reaching for his overnight bag. "I'll go check us in."

Mycroft did not reply, instead he followed Gregory into the building, realisation quickly dawning on him. Gregory wanted one more night. One more night before they returned to London and their normal lives. Before they forgot about the trip and what had transpired between them. And... perhaps Gregory had noticed the slight shift. Perhaps he was a little more perceptive than his fellow human beings. What an interesting thought. Mycroft stood behind him and waited.

A few minutes later, Greg was opening Mycroft's door, tossing his head, not meeting the curious eyes. "Got the place to ourselves," he said, leading the way, his bag slung over his shoulder. He quietly led Mycroft to their room, and opened the door, flicking the light on. Once more, a clean, homey, small room awaited... with one large bed. He turned and looked at Mycroft, awaiting the verdict before entering.

"I am not surprised. I can't see how this would be very packed on a night such as this." Mycroft replied smoothly, passing by Gregory and setting his bag down on the floor before sitting down on the bed. "Did you want to make a foray into the nearby town to see if there is some sort of decent food to be had?" He smiled up at the detective inspector, his fingers tapping his thighs lightly. "I am sure you are quite hungry."

"Not really." Greg shut the door behind him, dropping his bag of clothes and striding over to Mycroft. His breath was short, and his eyes were focused clearly on what he wanted. He towered over the seated man, and slowly, he lifted the pointed chin. "Can I touch you?" he whispered, his voice trembling a little.

Mycroft met the brown eyes evenly, the only thing betraying his inner arousal was the slight dilation of his pupils. "If you like." He answered in a low voice, not moving from his seat.

"I would." Lestrade shifted, crawling up on the bed, bringing their faces together as he breathed shakily, their lips barely brushing, and his hands moved up the thin arms to cup his face. "I would, very much," Greg murmured. He kissed him lightly, his thumbs tracing the lines of his jaw.

Mycroft returned the kiss, hands fluttering to Gregory's sides as he leaned in. One more time. Just this last time. After all, Gregory was exceptionally good and attractive. Why should he not receive if the man was so willing to give? There was no reason. No one needed to know. None of the people who knew about their encounters would breathe a word. "I am glad to hear it," he whispered back, his hands coming to rest on Gregory's chest.

"Oh, hell," he whispered, and wished suddenly, fiercely for a bottle of the shitty KY he kept for wanking by his bedside at home. Oh, what he'd give for it right now! Greg pushed the tall man backwards, and took his time undressing him, turning the lights down, kissing every square inch of flesh as he revealed it. With every fresh revelation, he cursed silently, hyper aware of his desire to have this man, in ways he could not even comprehend. He only knew that as he tasted his chest, his stomach, the soft skin of his thighs, Greg's cock ached and throbbed, wanting more, so much more, than he could take right now.

Mycroft lay still as his body was lavished with the decadent pleasures of Gregory's hands and lips. This loving worship was quite different from anything Mycroft had ever come in contact with before. It was adoring and, oddly enough, truthful. Gregory was devouring every last inch of him in a manner that suggested he was physically attracted as well as, well, just the fact that Mycroft was there. He lay there, letting out soft moans every so often, his fingers threading through Gregory's hair as the man's lips trailed ever farther down. Mycroft had assumed this whole divergence from the beaten path was a mixture of conquest and loneliness for the detective inspector, but now he wasn't so sure. And that made him nervous. Far more nervous than anything else could have done. "Yo..u don't have to do that.." Mycroft cursed inwardly as his voice broke a little, sounding breathy and low.

"Do what?" Greg's lips were traveling, up his thighs, down his abdomen, his breath stirring the curls that surrounded the base of the now naked cock, twitching and pulsing next to Lestrade's cheek. He butted his nose against it gently, running the tip from base to the head, and he remained there, gazing at it curiously. He'd never seen another chap's dick up close before... he had little experience, but Mycroft's seemed especially fine. Greg let his lips graze the rim, his eyes studying the man's face.

Mycroft shuddered and bit his lip, eyelids fluttering shut. Gregory's lips teased the head of his cock, sending little jolts of pleasure through his body, causing him to tense and relax with each brush of the petal soft mouth. He began to take deep breaths, reminding himself that oxygen was absolutely vital to his wellbeing, because the way Gregory was showering the tentative attention to his prick made him forget even the simplest things. "T...hat. I am not a demanding man. Not in the bedroom." His jaw locked as Gregory's breath hit his cock, hot and hard.

The corners of Greg's mouth turned up as the tip of a wet, pink tongue flitted out, licking a tiny, light trail from the head of his cock to the base, and once more he breathed gently, stirring the curls there. Mycroft twitched, his entire body tightening, coiling. Greg swallowed thickly, his eyelashes tickling the shaft as he glanced up at the man. It was now or never, and since his whole life he'd chosen never... for once, Greg chose now. "No?" he asked softly, rubbing his cheek firmly against the swollen prick, smiling as Mycroft bit back a sharp cry. His evening stubble scraped against the sensitive skin, and with an audible sigh, Lestrade opened his mouth and bobbed his head down on the flexing cock, just once, just enough to get a taste. Mycroft gasped, and he freed the cock again, his expression thoughtful. Not bad. Not... not at all bad. Greg swooped down again, his mouth open wide, feeling the smooth, velvety skin of Mycroft's prick push past his lips, feeling the silken head hit the back of his throat, smelling the musky scent of cologne and flesh and.. Mycroft's cock. In his mouth. He moaned around it, humming a little, his large, rough fingers sliding up the pale torso.

Mycroft's hand flew to his mouth, the other clawing at the sheets. His toes curled and he whimpered softly, his body shaking as Gregory's fingers slid up his body, twisting his nipples. "G...Gr..regory... y... are you q..uite sure you've never done this before?" He laughed a little, a hysterical, aroused laugh. The mouth was hot and wet and it surrounded his prick perfectly. And then Gregory began to move his head, just a little. Enough to insight just the right amount of friction to cause the elder Holmes brother's body to go into hyper sensitive arousal. He arched his body and let out a soft moan, the hand that had been clutching at the sheets flew to Gregory's hair, grasping it tightly as he rocked just once into the man's mouth. "Sorry," he mumbled, flushing. "H..heat of the moment." His hand loosened on the man's hair and he relaxed, closing his eyes.

Something unusual happened the moment Mycroft's hands clutched at his head, pushing it down hard as the hot cock slid deep into Greg's mouth. The arousal that strained at his trousers was suddenly a full, raging, painful erection, and in desperation, he cried out, his hand flying to free it from his jeans. Greg pushed his zipper down, kicking the denims aside as he shook his head, struggling to make himself understood around Mycroft's prick. "Mm..ph.. s'all right," he mumbled, his tongue flattening up and down the sides of the warm organ. "Do it.. 'gain." He let go of the shaft just long enough to rip his shirt over his head, sighing in relief when the cool night air hit his bare skin. Then he was back, kneeling there between the thin legs, attacking the cock with confidence, with enthusiasm and an almost childlike delight as he heard Mycroft moan again. Greg's hands wandered his body, and he trembled with excitement, those worn fingers once more returning to his arse. He worked them between the round globes and the mattress, kneading them, his thumbs seeking out what he knew was hidden between.

Mycroft's body began to roll against the onslaught of stimulation. His hips rocked backwards and forwards at Gregory's encouragement, then back against the digits circling around his arsehole. He swallowed hard, desperately wishing they had lubricant. He didn't mind being open and vulnerable with Gregory. He didn't mind knowing that the detective inspector would only be satisfied with doing the penetration. Somehow relinquishing control wasn't as detestable as first imagined. It didn't even rankle. "Gr..egory... stop. Stop." He pushed up on the silver head and sat, breathing hard, staring into dark brown, lust filled eyes. A thrill ran through his body and he pulled the man into a kiss. "I can't be the only one enjoying this." He whispered into Gregory's lips, then he pushed him down. Hooking his thumbs underneath Gregory's cotton pants, the thin article of clothing being the only thing between Gregory and complete nudity. "There, now... everything is practically perfect." He wriggled down between the detective inspector's legs and began kissing him, sucking at the soft inner thighs.

Greg lifted his eyebrows at the turn of events, but he did not reply. There was no way in bloody hell he was going to refuse this. He'd not been touched like this in fucking ages, and the sight of Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in the country, licking and kissing and nibbling at his legs.. hell yes, it was a beautiful thing. Greg lay back, his chest heaving, his thighs shaking as his companion inched closer to the tall, wet, twitching erection that rose up into the air. Shit. If Mycroft didn't touch it soon... Greg was not above begging.

Mycroft noticed the slight change and glanced up, blinking. He smirked a little and finally reached the throbbing shaft, his lips just grazing the fiery erection. "You have a lovely prick." He murmured, his tongue flicking out, barely there touches. Underneath him he could feel the man's body coil and rock. Oh, this was fun. More fun than he'd had in years. This past weekend was more than expected. It was a good distraction. Nothing more than that. Gregory was absolutely nothing more than a distraction. Something to entertain him for a few days...

"Oh, FUCK, stop teasing!" Greg's strangled shout made Mycroft jump a little, but the poor detective inspector had reached the end of his tether. His toes were curled in the sheets, and he was whimpering, gasping for the dry night air as he stared down at Mycroft with a hungry, plaintive expression on his handsome face. "Either do something with it," he growled softly, "or bring your cock up here so I can do something with yours." The large, brown hands urged Mycroft's head down encouragingly, and Greg let his head fall back to the pillow with a whining noise of frustration.

Mycroft refused to take Gregory's cock in his mouth as he felt the hands on his head. He lifted his head up and looked at the panting man, something akin to affection in his eyes. Taking Gregory's hands in his, he kissed them softly, gently sucking on both of the palms before releasing them. "As you wish." he murmured softly, then he descended on the prick and began to hum. The hot cock throbbed in his mouth and he sighed appreciatively as the leaking head touched the back of his throat, the salty liquid searing his skin. "Mmmm," he moaned, bobbing his head enthusiastically.

"Oh." Distantly, Greg felt a little guilty for first practically demanding a blow job, then punctuating the response with a word as woefully inadequate as "oh." But it couldn't be helped... all other words escaped him. In a flash, it occurred to him as Mycroft's mouth moved over him, coaxing pleasure from nerves he didn't even know he had, that this was absolutely, positively, not Mycroft's first time with a bloke. He'd sucked dick before. Hell. He had to have. Greg thrashed on the bed, his brown eyes rolling back, his body bucking and uncoiling on the blankets as he urged Mycroft's head down harder, his cries growing shrill. "OOH!" he shouted, seemingly unable to come up with a single other word to describe the experience. Teeth grazed the rim of his cock, and he nearly came off the bed. He finally shouted his name, helpless against the rhythm his hips had started, pounding up into the waiting mouth.

Mycroft opened his mouth just wide enough to allow the cock easy passage. He relaxed his body and allowed Gregory to ram into him, the prick sliding down his throat with every impatient thrust. He held onto the detective inspector's legs, letting out soft noises as the thrusts became more and more erratic. Gregory was going to cum soon, that much was obvious. He may not have done this for a very long time, but... it was far more pleasurable than he'd remembered. Mycroft had never been a fan of giving head before, but, as with many other things, doing it with Gregory wasn't half as unwanted and tedious an affair as it had been with other people before him.

Greg recognised it the moment the orgasm began to build, and as Mycroft had done to him, he pushed him off gently, shuddering reluctantly as he did. He didn't say a word... he didn't have to. Mycroft sat up, blinking at him, and his eyes were understanding, and warm. So strange.. that Mycroft Holmes had the ability to look at someone with such warm depths in his eyes. Greg pulled him up, gathering him in his arms, and he rolled him over, lying atop the man without a word. Their bodies aligned, and as Greg bent for a kiss, a tender embrace, their legs tangled, and the rocking motion began. Turquoise and brown met, short gasps mingled, two pairs of hands laced on the pillow on either side of Mycroft's head, and the kisses began again as Greg felt his climax approaching swiftly. He gazed into the teal eyes, blinking slowly, letting Mycroft watch as their movements on the bed brought him to a slow, blinding, explosive orgasm.

Mycroft's heart squeezed inside him and a lump formed in his throat. The look on Gregory's face, the look of trust and affection... he felt like scum. "Gregory.." he whispered, angered that the lump made his voice slightly quaky. He bit his lip and kissed Gregory, his fingers found their way to the broad, tan back, as his legs wrapped around the man's waist and he began to rock against him. "Gregory... Gregory..." He continued to whisper his name as the friction began to rise to a crescendo. His eyes slid shut and he began to shake softly, his lips quivering as he buried his head in the crook of Gregory's neck.

"Shh, Mycroft, shh, just... a bit longer.." Greg's voice was breathless and enraptured as he quickened the pace. A great shudder passed through his body, immediately mirrored by the same in Mycroft's, and the grip on the inspector's back began to claw, to rip at his skin. Greg shouted, and curled into the pale body, convulsing violently as cum shot between them. Mycroft was cumming as well, his cries muffled in Greg's shoulder, and they continued to rock into one another, the white mess sticky and sliding between their stomachs. For long moments, they moved together, their breathing laboured, until at last Greg pushed up a little, his eyes lidded. He grinned lazily, nuzzling Mycroft's jawline. "You," he murmured, yawning, "are a surprising man."

Mycroft smiled thinly and lay back against the mattress, his eyes closed. "And that surprises you?" He asked softly, running his fingers absentmindedly through Gregory's soft hair. The room smelled of sex and sweat, the heat between them was still flowing freely, the electricity still there. He wondered at the oddity of the situation he found himself in. To be lying with Scotland Yard's detective inspector. To have just gotten off with Gregory Lestrade. "We should take a shower." He murmured lazily, not quite ready to get up.

"Mm. We should." Greg reached with a grunt for his tshirt, lying at the foot of the bed. He cleaned his stomach and delicately wiped Mycroft off as well, then pulled back the blankets to crawl naked beneath. Strong arms tugged Mycroft into bed beside him, winding around to urge the soft, chestnut head onto his chest. Greg waited as the slender, fussy fellow shifted, finding a comfortable spot, and when Mycroft seemed settled, one lily white hand flat on Greg's stomach, the policeman pressed a kiss into the crown of his head. "So," Greg whispered. "What happens tomorrow?"

Mycroft looked up at him, suddenly hyper aware of the situation. "We go back to London. Go back to our lives." There was a long silence and Mycroft opened his eyes again, staring at the tan chest beneath him, feeling the reverberating thrum of the detective inspector's heartbeat. "Would you have it any other way?"

One arm shot up and flicked off the dim light, drenching the room in utter darkness. For several minutes, there was not a sound but the raspy, heavy breathing of two men, still coming down from the high of a powerful orgasm. At last, Greg's voice broke the stillness, husky and thick. "Goodnight, Mycroft." He squeezed him once, then turned his face away, letting sleep overtake him immediately.

A slight sting of disappointment flickered up in Mycroft's chest and he shifted away from Gregory, swallowing hard. He turned to face the wall and nodded. It was for the best after all. Gregory was clearly fine with him leaving. He didn't want him after this. Mycroft closed his eyes and began to breathe slowly, regulating his body, forcing himself to relax and to put the disappointment behind him. It was time for sleep. There was another few hours ahead of him and then... escape.

The drive back to London was silent. This was not so unusual for Mycroft and Gregory; they'd spent many hours in silence. However, this was the first time they'd spent those hours in such awkward, uncomfortable stillness. Mycroft dropped Greg at his flat, and drove away with a few muttered words of thanks, and as Greg watched him drive away, he wondered at the gaping hole in his chest. It was something he'd not counted on, and was quite upsetting. Damn. His first decent shag since his wife left him, and he'd chosen Mycroft Holmes, of all people. Not only that, but John and Sherlock knew. Things were going to be awkward for a very long time. He sighed heavily, and trudged upstairs to change clothes and head to the Yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The plot thickens, just when you thought it would finally stop! Mwuahahahahahahaha! Please review and tell us what you think, oh, and don't forget to leave kudos!


	8. In Which Confessions are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks after the fateful trip, Mycroft has yet to contact Gregory, leaving the poor man to wonder what he did wrong, waiting and waiting by his phone for a call that seems like it will never come, until one day...  
> Tension rises to a crescendo in the second to last chapter of our nine chapter story, and will our boys finally get their heads out of their arses? Or will this all come crashing around their ears? 
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> Yes, I am terrible at summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise ahead of time for Sherlock being a little douche in this. I really didn't mean for him to come off as such a prick, but........ ehhh. Just know that he loves his brother and his brother loves him, no matter what. Sherlock's just too churlish to admit it, the sod.

Greg spent the next two weeks pretending that he did not keep his mobile a little closer at hand, that he did not jump a little faster when it rang, that he did not check his messages more frequently. But Mycroft did not call. Sherlock and John did not make an appearance until ten days after their return from Italy, for they were on the trail of a counterfeiter, and Greg was in no hurry to see them. On the eleventh day, however, Sherlock showed up unannounced in his office, quite pleased with himself. Greg looked up as the consulting detective strode through his door, smirking his arrogant smile. Lestrade looked over his shoulder. John was no where in sight, but he could see Donovan hustling a large man through processing. Ah. Sherlock had caught his man. He laid down his newspaper, motioning for the young man to enter. "Caught him then, did you?"

Sherlock beamed down at him, happily throwing himself into the chair. "Did you expect anything less?" He asked smugly, folding his arms. Then he noticed Lestrade glancing at his phone, nervously licking his lips. "What's wrong?" The smug look flickered slightly. "Something is wrong. What happened?"

"Nothing." That was at least the truth. Nothing. Not a word, not a text, not even an assignment. Mycroft had fallen off the face of the earth. Greg had known something like this would probably happen. After all, he'd warned him it was a one-time thing. But at least he would have liked to have been treated as he had been before. Mycroft tended to call on him once a week. Lestrade pushed his phone away, nodding to Sherlock. "Good job on the case, as usual. I'll make sure it reaches the right ears." He turned his attention to a stack of papers, hoping Sherlock would take the hint.

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. He didn't care about "the right ears". And then he realised what Gregory was antsy about. "Oh. Still on THAT." He sneered and crossed his legs. "What, has Mycroft given you the cold shoulder? You didn't know he's gone off to Maui." Sherlock picked up Lestrade's coffee cup and sipped at it before blanching and pushing it back to his side of the desk. "My brother is stupid. And you are, too. Disgusting. The both of you."

"Disgusting?" Greg's head whipped up from his desk, and he glared daggers at the snide man across from him. "I walked in on you fucking John on your kitchen floor surrounded by... fuck, syrup, batter, and who the hell knows what else. You wrecked your hotel room in Italy just to get back at your brother for saving your arse.. again. So.. just shut the fuck up about him, all right?" Greg stood, scowling at Sherlock. Mycroft was in Maui. He was on holiday... that was all. Only Mycroft didn't take holidays. Mycroft never went anywhere unless it was for work, and somehow, he couldn't imagine The Queen sending him to Hawaii for reasons of state.

Sherlock's eyes rounded and his jaw went lax. "Yo...you fancy him. You FANCY him!" The sleuth jumped to his feet and gaped at him. "So that's what this is about. You and... Mycroft... so that's why he went to Maui." sitting down once more, Sherlock stared across at the frowning man. "You do know why he's there, correct?"

"Get away from you and your bull shit," Greg muttered, mindlessly gathering papers from his desktop. There was no use arguing with Sherlock. He was too damned stubborn. He didn't fancy him... it was one weekend, and granted.. it had been a good one. A very good one. The best one he'd had in many years. But it was over, and when Mycroft got back from Maui, he'd act like nothing happened.

"No. To get away from you. Obviously." When Lestrade's head shot up, his face white, Sherlock groaned. "No. Idiot. Mycroft has only ever taken one holiday before. When Karen left. He went to Maui and got drunk and shagged until he went back to his pain-in-the-arse self." Sherlock inspected his nails, rattling off the information in a matter-of-fact way, mostly uncaring. He loved showing his prowess of the mind. Showing off all the information he did know. "And clearly he when he was on the phone that weekend he was getting ticket. He's been gone a lot longer than I expected. You must have really gotten in his head." Sherlock gazed levelly at Lestrade and waited for his answer.

Greg stared back at him, his face draining of colour. "Didn't," he said back, somewhat lamely. But.. Why the hell else would Mycroft be gone? Their encounters must have shaken him. Or perhaps they simply reminded him of how good it felt to be with another person, to shag until you fell over with exhaustion. Suddenly, the colour in his cheeks was back. It flamed crimson, creeping up his neck, heating his face until he ducked his head, trying to hide it. He was angry. Greg examined the emotion with surprise. He was angry, because Mycroft had run to the bed of a stranger... and not to his. He pursed his lips, grabbing for his coat. "Going to call it an early day," he mumbled.

Sherlock rolled the chair around and watched Gregory walk, hunch-shouldered to the door. The sleuth frowned. What had he done? He could hear John's voice in the back of his head, and he drummed his fingers on his thigh. "He'll be back." Sherlock looked down at his feet and licked his lips. He would have to get John to explain which social boundary he'd crossed this time. "He'll be normal again. You won't like him after he's back to his old self. It will be like old times." Sherlock poked his inner cheek with his tongue and sat.

Greg paused by the door, one hand on the frame, one in his pocket. He did not turn round to look at Sherlock, but when he spoke, the words were clear and precise. "I liked his old self," he said quietly. "And the old Mycroft wouldn't skip off to Maui to fuck." Lestrade let himself out, walking past Donovan and her prisoner, ignoring the chaos around him. Maybe it was time he took a holiday as well.

When Mycroft got back two weeks after that fated weekend, he was relaxed, tanned, and smug. He had been correct about the entanglement with Gregory Lestrade. It had been a simple infatuation brought on by stress and weak-mindedness. He had gotten over it. Well over it. And so he was quite confident with himself when he called the Yard and left a short message on Gregory's office phone.

"Gregory, I've been away on a sabbatical. Stop by my office today. I need a review of the past few weeks."

When he played his messages that morning, it was an act of habit, not hope. Greg was positively dragging as he entered his office, and he spent an hour checking his emails, writing up paperwork, reviewing new cases. Playing his messages was an afterthought, brought on by the blinking red light that so often signalled one of his men calling in ill. That morning, however, it was the call he'd been waiting for.

Greg was up and out the door in under three minutes. His coat and scarf trailed behind him, for it was a nippy day. And it took him less than twenty minutes to drive in heavy traffic to Mycroft's office in the stale, stuffy club. He knocked smartly on the heavy wood doors, panting. He'd been obliged to park two blocks away, and run the rest of the way to the club... but he didn't much care. Mycroft was home, and wanted to see him,

"Come in." Mycroft called out, flipping through the several reports that had piled up on his desk. He felt proud of himself for the fact that his heart absolutely did NOT skip a beat when he heard the familiar sound of Gregory's knock.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Lestrade stepped inside, his silver hair slightly askew from his jog. He glanced around the room, his eyes lighting on the man behind the desk, and Greg approached with a hesitant smile on his face. "Mycroft." The detective inspector walked across the plush carpet, his hands in his pockets, trying to slow his breathing. Damn, he needed to get in shape. "Did you enjoy Maui?" He hovered over one of the overstuffed chairs, his eyes scanning Mycroft's face. Oh. Oh. He was sun kissed, his cheeks flushed, his pale flesh tan, his expression relaxed and... well shagged. Very well-shagged. He lowered himself into the chair slowly.

Mycroft looked up from the papers, his usual expression of cool disinterest firmly in place. "Mildly, yes." He leaned back in the leather chair and steepled his fingers, staring heavily lidded at the man in front of him. "However I made a mistake in being gone so long. Several things have happened since I left, and I would rather hear a synopsis of the past few weeks from you rather than getting a skewed version from the papers and telly." He smiled briefly and tried not to notice the look of disappointment crossing Gregory's face.

"Oh." Greg crossed his legs, studying Mycroft closely. It hurt. Why the hell did it hurt? "Sherlock caught the counterfeiter. There's been a rash of disappearances in Croydon. Mostly homeless people. Sherlock doesn't seem interested." Was that a love bite on Mycroft's neck? Greg couldn't look without being obvious. His brow wrinkled, and he looked down at his shoelaces, scowling. "The scandal in the palace is still on the society pages, but its old news. No one gives a shit. And..." He glanced down at his mobile, clutched in one hand. What was he supposed to say? And you didn't call? You didn't text? You ran off and fucked someone else? "And that's about it." Greg lifted his chin, eyeing Mycroft with a mixture of defiance and hurt.

Mycroft nodded, a tiny little discomfort beginning to rise up in his chest. A small sting that got worse every time he looked at Gregory. "Thank you." He swallowed and looked down at his hands, unable to keep staring at the wounded man. "I... should have called earlier. I apologise." The elder Holmes brother cleared his throat, suddenly wishing he hadn't called at all. This had been an absolutely horrid idea. Not that he was feeling anything for the man again, it was just because he hated having to deal with the emotions of others. And Gregory was obviously deeply hurt.

"Right, then." Greg stood up, pocketing his phone and rubbing his palms on his denim thighs. "No reason for you to call on holiday. You were... busy." He looked him up and down, nostrils flaring a little, and he shrugged. "Didn't expect a call anyway," the detective lied. "You said you wanted things to go back to normal. So there's your update, and I'll be on my way." He turned, struggling to maintain the mask of apathy as he strode towards the door. Damn it! When had he started caring what, or who, Mycroft did with his spare time? The one-time weekend had made a deeper impression than he wanted to admit. He wondered vaguely who Mycroft slept with on holiday... was it a man? A woman? Several of each? From the look of the man, he had a fucking marvelous time. Greg had never seen him so relaxed. He was... desirable. Greg snarled at himself for thinking the word, his hand on the brass door handle.

"You never disagreed." Mycroft said it before he could convince himself not to, then felt like hitting himself because Gregory paused at the door. "When I asked if you would have it another way. You never disagreed." He flushed a little and picked up the papers once more, making a great show of rustling through them. "Good day, Gregory. If you would send one of your least annoying officers to give me the reports I would greatly appreciate it." He was silent for about a half a second before speaking up again. "You may leave now." Hopefully his brusque tone and cool exterior would erase the slip up. Why the hell had he said that in the first place? It was what he had wanted. That night. He hadn't wanted Gregory to hold him close and say that he didn't want things to go back to normal, that he wanted to continue seeing him, that it had been more than just a fun weekend to be stricken from the books. That he... Mycroft flushed a little and mentally growled. This was getting ridiculous.

Greg had his hand on the door and was pushing it open, letting the sharp pain of Mycroft's cruel word sink in, when the man behind him barked the order to send the officers. He turned around swiftly, staring with round, horrified eyes at the desk, and the Ice Man. "I can leave now?" he said lowly, his tone dangerous. Mycroft glanced up from his papers, just in time to watch Lestrade slam the door shut, the sound reverberating through the club. He stomped back to the man, slamming his palms down on desk with a great deal of force, his brown eyes flashing dangerously as he leaned in to hiss in his face. "I will not." Lestrade was shaking with fury, and he towered over Mycroft, intimidating despite his humble appearance. "If you want to forget what happened, that's fucking fine, but you'll not shut me out of my fucking job because we got off together in some bloody hotel room. You can run off to Maui and fuck, but when you get back, you treat me like you always have. I deserve that." His heart was thudding, his blood pumping in his temples. Mycroft smelled like the beach.

Mycroft looked up at him and a deep sorrow crossed his face only to be banished a few seconds after it appeared. "You are right." He said softly, looking down at the desk. "That was uncalled for. I apologise, Gregory. I am very sorry." A thin hand reached forward and touched one of the detective inspector's, lingering a little longer than it ought to have. He retracted his hand quickly, too quickly. Damn it. "Everything will be the same, of course. You will always be my go-to man. For everything." He pushed back from his desk and walked over to the window, his back to Gregory. After all, if he couldn't control his facial features than he could not look at the man. How embarrassing it was. Perhaps he should have stayed gone longer. "I expect the reports on my desk by Monday morning." He clenched his hands and stood stiffly, waiting for Gregory to leave so that he could crumple.

Greg waited by the desk, his brow furrowed, and when Mycroft made no move, he shuffled over to him, slouching directly behind the tall man with a sigh. There were several moments of silence, thick with tension, and at last, Greg reached out with one hand, wrapping it around a thin shoulder. Mycroft stiffened a little. The other hand slid up his arm, and Lestrade's breath was warm on the back of his neck. "Look, I'm sorry," Greg whispered. "You.. I was worried. You didn't call, and I know you said you wanted to go back to our lives, but.. fuck, I was hoping you'd call." He hasted on, stammering a little in his nervousness. "I mean, it's fine, I know you have a life, and a delicate position. I don't expect anything. I just thought.. I didn't know you went on holiday, I just thought you were avoiding me. Then Sherlock said..." He paused, and shut his mouth. It didn't matter what Sherlock said. Greg huffed, dropping his hands and shoving them in his pockets. It was necessary. If he didn't, then he'd give in to the urge to turn Mycroft around and kiss the soft, thin lips. "Anyway. Sorry."

"Sherlock said what?" Mycroft's voice was suddenly hard, concealing a dark terror that ran beneath. Sherlock? What had he said? He couldn't have possibly known anything! But then again... his little brother had wanted revenge. What had he said to Gregory? "What did he say?" The man turned around, his jaw tight.

Greg stepped back, surprised at the sudden steel in Mycroft's blue eyes. "Th..that you went to Maui." There was a moment of quiet in which Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Greg swallowed. "To get away from me."

A deep rosy colour appeared on Mycroft's cheeks and he whipped around again, doing his absolute best not to hyperventilate. "Of course you didn't believe him. That it preposterous. I went to Maui for a break. N-nothing more." He cursed the almost imperceptible break in his voice. "My brother is a foolish man." Mycroft's hands clenched into fists behind his back. "I am sure you have other things you need to attend to. You may leave." Damn Sherlock!

Greg's jaw set. Fuck, there was that pain again. "Fine. Since you're so eager to be rid of me." He stalked away, his long legs moving swiftly across the carpet, fighting back the anger that so naturally followed hurt. Once more, the oak door creaked open, and banged on his way out. He pushed past the members of the club, and burst out into the cool morning air, taking in deep, cleansing breaths. Shit! Shit. Greg walked quickly to his car, and leaned against the hood, his stomach fluttering. So. It really was business as usual, then. He yanked the door open, fumbling through the glove compartment until he found the squashed pack of cigarettes he'd left in there months ago. He lit up, his eyes shut tight, hands trembling. Well, this was a revelation. Not until this moment had he realised that he had been hoping.. and hoping desperately.. for something more. He whipped his phone out of his pocket, sent out a brusque text, and tossed it aside again.

Sherlock, you don't have to worry. He'll barely look at me. - Lestrade

The car roared to life, and Greg puffed hard on his fag. He needed a holiday, too.

Idiot. - SH

Of course he won't. - SH

Who the hell do you think he is? - SH

The replies, as usual, came seconds after the text was sent off. Sherlock Holmes was never far from his camera phone.

Greg glanced at his phone, and scrolled through Sherlock's replies. He sighed.

I don't know. Guess that's the point, isn't it? - Lestrade

Did you expect him to turn into a blushing maiden when you arrived? Idiot. - SH

He's MY brother. Sometimes I wonder at the human race. Really. It's ridiculous. John had to work hard to get where he is now with me. - SH

Greg snorted. Classic Sherlock.

Not everyone wants to be where John is with you. Some of us.. just want a little more that what he got in Maui. - Lestrade

He thought a moment, then punched the keys a few more times irritably.

Now leave me alone. - Lestrade

The car went tearing down the street, and with the mood Gregory Lestrade was in, no one knocked on his office door for a week.

It was a week and a half before Mycroft contacted Lestrade again. During that time he got his head on straight once more, and made very sure that there was no possible way Gregory could get under his skin. In fact he was so self-assured that he called the detective inspector into his office once more. Well, he had Anthea call him in. As it was he had no time to do anything besides take calls and suffer fools quietly. He sat at his desk, as usual, mounds of paperwork stacked up. There was no foreseeable end to the amount of work he had to do in order to get caught up. It was distressing, and he was frustrated. Frustrated and tired and stressed and the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He sighed and filed another stack before stopping, letting his head fall to the desk. Perhaps a nap while he waited for Gregory to come.

When Anthea called, Lestrade did not rush out of his office this time round. He did not pull on his coat and abandon his work, he did not hurry across town, zipping in and out of traffic. He simply acknowledged the request, and hung up on the efficient, unemotional woman. He then returned to his tasks at hand, for he had a great deal of work, and hell, he was NOT going to prolong it for the sake of Mycroft Holmes. In fact, he did not find himself at Mycroft's office until after six, and even then it was a reluctant visit. Greg straightened his jacket as he stepped out of the car, walking with casual confidence through the posh building. He was a bit dressed up today.. not for Mycroft's sake. Hell, no. The chief inspector had called on him that morning, and Mycroft was simply getting the residuals. Greg brushed past the secretary, his eyes cool, his chin thrust out stubbornly as he opened the doors... and came face to face with the hunched figure of the elder Holmes. He was crumpled in his chair, his cheek resting on his forearm as he dozed silently, soft breaths escaping his lips. Greg approached, tiptoeing closer, cocking his head. There. There was that look again. Peaceful. Childish. Almost angelic. His hand reached out of its own volition, and brushed a strand of light brown hair from the high forehead.

Mycroft's eyes flicked open and he sat up straight, rubbing his face. "W..what? Oh, Gregory. I am sorry. I must have fallen asleep." He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and held back a yawn. "Thank you for coming." The tired man took a deep breath and smiled vaguely. He gestured to the empty seat next to his desk and poured himself a splash of bourbon. Raising the bottle questioningly, he set the pen he'd been clutching on down. Gregory looked... well, now he looked back to his normal self, but at first he had looked soft and kind. He hated how his heart had skipped the second he saw the man in front of him.

"Here." Greg took the bottle from him, and poured himself a glass as well. He sat down, elbows on his knees as he looked curiously at the man across the desk. Mycroft looked like hell. He was tired, and strained, and Greg's chest tightened as he saw the weary lines in his mouth. He sipped at the glass, feigning a humourless laugh. "You look as if you need another holiday," he murmured.

"No. The holiday is why I have all of this." He sipped at the glass and gazed across at Gregory for a few moments. "It was a mistake going. There are consequences to everything... some more dire than others. And the sabbatical was not worth them this time." He pulled down another set of papers and looked over them with a somewhat vacant, distracted eye. Because clearly he was not looking at Gregory. He did not notice the tight lines around his mouth and the clenched fists. Gregory hated him now. And it hurt.

"Yeah, I suppose that's true." Greg finished off the shot of bourbon, and sat back in his chair, thinking. It was odd, not knowing what to say. He was not a man of many words at the best of times, but he also rarely found himself in the position of having absolutely nothing to say. At last, he cleared his throat, and leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know... once I bagged this bird I met at pub on holiday, when I was twenty-seven." He smiled, his voice lowering a little as the turquoise eyes lifted to meet his. "Beautiful thing.. red hair, pretty green eyes. Nice rack." Greg clucked, shaking his head a little, exhaling through his nose. "Thought I'd done a fair thing. Got a one night stand with a lovely slip of a thing. Turns out.. her da was the local minister. Got me an arse chewing, ruined me holiday, and then she sent me letters for three years." He began to laugh softly, glad for the twitch in the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "Nice shag, but not worth the trouble that came after." His expression fell a little as he gazed into the other man's face, their minds both drifting back to the last few weeks. It had been nearly a month since their encounter.

Lestrade still thought of it, every single day.

"When I... the first time I took a holiday I met a woman who I thought was going to be simple, easy. She turned out to be a reporter." He set the pen down again and poured more of the alcohol. "I had to deal with that for nearly two weeks." Mycroft looked down at the papers and licked his lips. "You... I am sorry. I should not be boring you with these stories." He rubbed his forehead and tapped his fingers on the underside of his desk before taking out his trusty box of chocolates and popping one in his mouth.

"Bloody hell, not the chocolates." Greg stood and marched round the desk, laughing as he ripped the box out of Mycroft's hands. The slender man, still slightly brown from the beach, cried out a bit indignantly, but Lestrade held them out of reach, grinning. Thy stared at one another a moment, his smile eventually fading into a thoughtful, sad expression, and slowly, Greg placed the box back on the desk, swallowing thickly. "Can I say something?" he asked, his voice raspy and soft.

Instead of giving Lestrade the usual snappy answer, Mycroft relented and nodded. "Yes."

Greg turned, clearing a space on Mycroft's desk and hoisting himself up to sit on the top, facing him, his face serious. "Why did you go away on holiday?" he asked simply, not flinching a bit as he proposed the burning question. "Sherlock.. said you might've gone away.. to shag. To get it out of your system. Is that true?"

Mycroft turned his chair to face the desk and stared down at his soft hands. He sighed and took a chocolate, chewing it methodically before answering. "Yes and no." With a resigned look he stood up and walked over to the window, hands clasped behind his back. "I am not sure what all he told you. I went to Maui to clear my mind. Becoming attached is not a good thing in my line of work, and... It didn't work as well as last time." He stared out the window at the rain that had begun to fall in torrents. How fitting, he mused silently.

Greg watched him closely, his throat tightening a little. Sherlock had been right, then. His suspicions were confirmed. Mycroft had gone away to shag, yes, and to forget what had happened between them. It pained him to think of. Greg didn't need to forget. Greg didn't want to forget. If anything.. He looked up at Mycroft, standing silhouetted in the window, the weight of the nation on his thin shoulders. The inspector stood up, quietly moving behind him, well aware that the last time he stood here, he'd been rejected quite coolly. But this was different. There was an openness and honesty in the atmosphere that had been lacking before. He did not touch the man, but took a deep breath, letting Mycroft know he was near. "You didn't have to leave, you know," Greg muttered. He shuffled, his hands in his pockets, his head ducked. "If you wanted me to stay away, I would have. And.." He cleared his throat, his cheeks colouring a little. "If you wanted to shag, you.. I mean.. I was here." Bloody hell, this was embarrassing. He exhaled, trying not to stare at the back of Mycroft's head. The rain made a lovely, soothing pattering noise against the window pane, and London was still and quiet. The smell of the rich woods, the leather chairs, the tapestries of the office filled his nostrils. It was quite surreal.

Mycroft almost turned around, but he could not face the honest man behind him. He could not look him in the eye and turn him down one more time. It would be far too painful, and Mycroft had experience enough pain to last several lifetimes. "That's the problem, you see. I enjoyed it too much. I would not have been able to stay away had I not left. It... means too much. I want to far too much." He paused for a moment then realised what tense he'd spoken in. "Wanted to." He corrected, immediately wishing he had not. "At any rate. In my position I cannot afford to be frivolous with my feelings or personal life. It is as simple as that, Gregory." Beads of water caught onto the window, rolling down mournfully. Silence filled the room with its deafening presence, and suddenly Mycroft had the urge to leave. To hurry out onto the rain and catch a cab. To leave. To be anywhere but here. "Please leave now. I am tired." His throat caught and his hands tightened their grip around one another.

"Why do you keep asking me to leave?" Greg stepped forward then, his voice rising, and with sudden resolve, he took hold of Mycroft's elbow, turning him around swiftly and backing him into the window. The cold glass pressed against the pale neck, and Mycroft shivered in response. Greg's eyes darkened, and he tightened his grip on the other man's forearm, leaning in close. "You call me to come, then you ask me to leave. Make up your mind, Mr. Holmes, because..." The brown eyes darted over his face, and the two men stared at one another in the dim, early evening light. The sun was setting behind the rain clouds, and Mycroft's office was dark. Slowly, the fingers clutching the suit arm loosened, but Greg did not let go. He simply skated his hand up to cradle his shoulder blade, his voice dropping huskily. "Because I think you want me to stay. And I'd like to know just what you're running away from, Mycroft Holmes." The tip of Lestrade's nose grazed Mycroft's, and the heat of his body warmed the air between them.

Mycroft's breath slowed down and he swallowed thickly, trying to clear his mind, to think rationally. It was hard in this situation. "Caring... is not an advantage." He finally managed to get out, his words less authoritative than when he had told Sherlock that very same thing. "I don't run. I never run. I can't. It's not in my job description." He licked his lips, his entire body aching to press forward and kiss the lips so close to his own. "It would be wise of you to leave. I have always prided myself as a very strong man, but even the strongest have their limits. Find someone who is... worth the effort, Gregory. Find someone good. You deserve it." He tightened his jaw and looked away, blinking rapidly.

"You can't bloody make up your mind, can you?" Greg did not release him, did not turn and walk away as Mycroft was so obviously hoping he'd do. His voice was thick, tinged with hurt and a little indignation as he remained where he was, too close, not close enough. "So many reasons to turn me away, you can't choose? Your job, your heart, your reputation. Maybe.. maybe just this once, Mycroft, you could take a lesson from your little brother. Maybe you should... tell the world to fuck off, and do what you want." He pushed back off of the window now, stepping backwards, his eyes full of sadness as he surveyed the miserable, lonely, fearful man. Greg hurt, hurt for himself, hurt for Mycroft. Hell, this hadn't been easy for him, either, but he was willing to jump in with both feet. Why the hell not? It felt good, it felt right... and it hurt. In Greg's experience, the only things in life worth having were the things that could hurt the worst. He sighed, shaking his head a little. "Unless of course, you just don't want me."

"Not... not want you?" Mycroft laughed a little and sagged down to the window sill, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. "What do you think I have been trying to say? Why the hell do you think I went to Maui in the first place? That stupid little trip of ours... that was the most I have enjoyed life in several, several years. That was the most I have enjoyed another person's company in several years. Which is why I needed to leave. Which is why you need to leave." His shoulders shook a little in silent, almost hysterical laughter. It was too much. Gregory had left him with absolutely no dignity. He'd stripped Mycroft of all that he clung to for support. And now he was rubbing it in his face. "I care too much already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shall I let you all in on a secret? THIS IS THE SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER. OMG. Next week we should have the last installment, and it ought to be quite a long chapter. Will it end happily? Weeeelllll, I don't know... I like to be cruel. ;)
> 
> One thing we will know for sure by the end of this is... Mycroft Holmes definitely has a heart. And, just like any other, it breaks rather easily.


	9. Chapter the Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So our story draws to an end in this final chapter, and we must bid adieu to Mycroft and Gregory. Mycroft has finally told Gregory how much he truly feels for him, and it's now up to Gregory to bring him completely out of his shell. Will the challenge be accepted? WILL THEY FINALLY HAVE SEX??? Guess you'll just have to read the chapter to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this and for leaving so many positive reviews. I really wish my co-writer and I would settle down and write another Mystrade or Johnlock, but unfortunately that doesn't seem to be in the stars. We had a bit of a creative tiff with the latest season of Sherlock.... namely she hated Mary and I loved Mary, and so now I don't know if we'll be writing any more stories in the Sherlockverse. It's very sad for me, but all good things must come to an end, I suppose.

"Then kiss me." There was a long silence after the simple words rang through the air, during which only the rhythm of the rain and the whispering of a cold wind just outside broke the stillness. Mycroft remained frozen, his head in his hand, and Greg stayed quiet a few feet away, fists clenched by his sides. When the trembling man made no move to approach him or to speak, Greg made a strangled noise, and took two steps forward, grabbing his face in his hands, crushing their mouths together. He kissed him fervently, passionately, holding him in place as his lips devoured Mycroft's, and everything inside of Lestrade became sensitive and aware all at once. His hand stood on end. His skin tingled. His heart sped up. His legs went weak. He whispered his name, opening his mouth, his tongue flicking out to taste him.

Mycroft stiffened, but it was already too late. He was tired, too tired to resist. And so he allowed Gregory to kiss him, and soon he was returning the kiss, his arms closing around Gregory's back in a desperate embrace. Hands gripped on the man's jacket as Mycroft pulled him close, hungrily capturing the detective inspector's lips again and again, barely stopping for air. He could hear his name being said in low, husky tones, and it made his heart quicken, it made his head fog up. He ran a hand through the short silver hair, gripping the top and pulling his head back, attacking the exposed neck with virility. "I told you to leave." He moaned kissing underneath the man's chin. "You should have. You should have."

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Everything within him screamed the word, and Greg let his head fall backward as Mycroft's hands tugged his hair. He panted, grinding his body into the expensive suit, his eyes fluttering as he felt the answering firmness, the heat of the flesh below. "Don't... want to leave," Greg gasped, whimpering as the mouth latched onto his throat, biting, licking, kissing up and down. Oh, no, he didn't want to leave. He wanted to touch, to experience the fire again that he'd felt when they'd lain naked, groaning, touching, feeling each other. He shoved his hands inside the jacket, pulling swiftly at the crisp shirt beneath, and he moaned as he freed it from the trousers. Warm hands slid up Mycroft's bare back, pulling him closer, and Greg rubbed his body against him, swallowing. "Don't want to leave you," he whispered again breathlessly, exploring the skin with eager hands.

Mycroft laughed and pushed away from him for a second, staring directly into the clouded brown eyes. "That doesn't matter anymore, because you can't. You can't leave me ever. Not anymore. I gave you your chances, and now I won't allow you to leave." And then he pushed him down on the floor, hovering over him, pulling the shirt tails out from the trousers, his hands delving beneath the fabric, searching out warm, tan skin. Mycroft had had enough playing coy. Had enough of being a martyr. And now he was going to take what he wanted. And every fibre of his being wanted Gregory Lestrade. Had wanted him for much longer than Mycroft would have cared to admit. "My flat is close." He whispered in the man's ear, rolling the lobe about between his teeth. "I have all the necessary items. The ones we were lacking before." He latched onto Gregory's neck and began the delicious process of leaving a bright purple mark on the skin. "Come with me."

"Yes." Greg was already rolling his hips up in a desperate effort to gain more friction. "Yes, I want that," he rasped, suddenly more sure of this than he'd ever been of anything. More than his wife, more than his job... Greg was sure that he wanted, he needed Mycroft's flat, and Mycroft's... items. He let himself be tugged to his feet, and he grabbed the other man once more, growling a little as he kissed him deeply, his tongue pushing forcefully inside. The kiss was brief and violent, and Greg pulled away first, panting, his eyes flashing wildly. "Want me to drive?"

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." Mycroft answered, straightening his clothes and leaning in for another quick, searing kiss. "I just want to go."

Greg smirked at the pop culture reference, taking him by the hand and leading him to the door. Mycroft surprised him. Time and again, the man surprised him. He supposed... that was part of his charm. Greg poked his head out of the large doors, glancing about, and he darted out quickly, dragging Mycroft out behind him. "Come on, make it fast," he growled, his eyes sharp for any sign of the man's over-attentive staff. They hustled out of the club without being seen, Greg's hand still wrapped tightly around his lover's, and he laughed as they jogged to the tiny, run down white coupe that he'd parked down the street. Mycroft's lip was curled a little. Greg unlocked it, letting go of his hand and tossing his head at the passenger side. "Get in. It won't bite."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and gingerly sat in, pleasantly surprised to see that it was quite clean. "Directions," he said quietly as Gregory sat down beside him. Handing one of his most precious possessions, his camera phone, over to the grinning man, Mycroft flashed a return smile. "Hurry. If you break the speed limit then I can sort it out. Just do step on it." He leaned forward and kissed the man's cheek, once more grasping his hand for a scant few seconds before retreating back to his seat and buckling himself in. "It will take ten minutes to get there." He turned to the window and looked out, his heart racing.

"I can cut that to seven." The engine revved, and Greg grinned broadly at his companion, tearing out of the parking space and into the street with very little regard for the traffic laws.

He managed it in six and a half. Luck was on his side, the traffic lights were compliant, there were few vehicles on the road, and he completely ignored the speed limits as Mycroft's mobile gave him monotone, robotic directions to the flat. Through the entire ride, the brown eyes flicked repeatedly to the man sitting next to him, and Lestrade reached over every few seconds to pet at his leg, his hand, hoping desperately that six and a half minutes was not long enough for him to change his mind. The police inspector had a bloody painful stiffy, and if he allowed himself to look, he could see that Mycroft was in the same pitiable condition. He only allowed himself a glance twice though... after he nearly ran over an old woman walking a dog, he kept his eyes on the road. They pulled up to Mycroft's home, and Greg shut the car down, his breath quick and shallow.

"Come along, Gregory." Mycroft unbuckled his seat and leapt from the car, walking very quickly to the front door. "Hurry!" He whipped around to beckon the man forward, rummaging about in his pockets for the keys. It was good to be home. Damn good to be home with Gregory. He did a quick mental walk-through at the state of his flat, and seeing that it was quite respectable enough to allow company in, unlocked to door.

Greg didn't need to be told twice. He slammed the car door, hot on Mycroft's heels, the smile he'd been sporting now plastered to his face, possibly permanently. He took a very brief moment to coo at the posh building, his eyebrows raised, but he didn't have time to take it all in. He was too busy staring at the tight movement of Mycroft's arse beneath his loose Italian trousers. Greg's cock jumped, and he groaned, pressing himself into his back as the front door closed behind them, and they were left alone in the dark hallway of Mycroft's home. "Finally," Greg grunted, twisting him around to face him.

Mycroft leaned against him and smirked, his hands reaching around to cup the man's arse. "Not the most eloquent of phrases, but I could not agree more." He tugged him along the hallway, not bothering with the lights. It wasn't as though they would be needing them anyway. "I have been waiting for so long." He murmured, resting his cheek against Gregory's. It felt warm and soft. "The flat's a bit nippy. I'm not here enough to really care about the temperature." Mycroft murmured apologetically as they entered his large, simply decorated bedroom. He snapped his fingers and the lights turned on. "Everything is by the bed. All ready for us." He smiled and let go of Gregory.

Greg tilted his head. Mycroft wasn't kidding. In the center of the room was an enormous bed, quietly draped in thick blankets and rich pillows, solid and heavy. Next to the bed, a table sat against the wall, and upon the tabletop was a lamp, a telephone, a notepad... and a bottle of lubricant. He blinked at his companion. More surprises. "Expecting someone?" he asked casually, sauntering over to the table and picking up the bottle. It looked new.

Mycroft laughed a little and shook his head. "I don't often receive house guests." He said smoothly, walking over to the soft bed and sitting down, carefully unlacing his shoes. "That is for my own personal use." The elder Holmes brother set the shoes down underneath the bed and began to take his coat and vest off. Getting up from his seat he walked over to the closet and hung them up. "Make yourself comfortable, please." Mycroft's heart rate was beginning to return to normal, his arousal calming down slightly as his mind began to whirr once more. Manners came back, proper speech and etiquette were remembered. Things were beginning to get restored to normalcy.

Greg stared at his back, wondering if somehow in the last few moments, he'd stepped through some sort of dimensional shift in the universe. Some cock blocking dimensional shift. Mycroft was disrobing, yes, but it was so damned precise and stiff that Greg's erection half wilted immediately. He glanced back at the bottle in his hand, and pictured Mycroft lying on his back in the dark of the night, stroking himself and moaning... hah. There. His dick sprang to life once more, and Lestrade chuckled a little, setting the bottle down and striding over to the tall man by the closet. "Hey," he whispered, sliding both arms around Mycroft's waist and tugging the white dress shirt from his trouser waistband. "You're not moving fast enough." He rubbed his crotch against the firm cushion of Mycroft's arse, pulling him back gently to meet the little thrust, and he ran his lips down the curve of his neck.

Mycroft moaned a little, the erection that had been previously calming down flared once more. "I apologise," he murmured, his hands falling from his shirt to rest by his sides. "Why don't you give it a try, then?" Turning about in the strong arms, Mycroft rested his own arms on Gregory's hips and smiled at the silver haired man in front of him. "Undress me." He said in low tones, leaning forward and kissing the thin lips. Mycroft chuckled against the lips and rocked his hips into the other man's. He was, despite his outer cool exterior, quite eager to get on the bed.

Greg accepted the kiss hungrily, his hands flying to their work. He walked backwards, pulling Mycroft along with him, tearing at the buttons of his shirt, and when he became frustrated with their stubbornness, he yanked at them roughly. He heard the soft hiss of his lover, and could not discern whether Mycroft was angry at him for endangering an article of clothing which no doubt cost more than his monthly salary, or if the man was gasping out of passion. He decided to pretend, at least, it was the latter, and he twisted his hands in the soft hair atop Mycroft's head, dragging him in for a deeper kiss as he pushed and shoved at his trousers. They pooled on the floor, and Greg kicked them away, never breaking the embrace. His own clothes came off in much shorter order. He was quite used to stripping quickly at the prospect of a shag... one never knew when one's partner might change their minds. Greg didn't want to give him the chance. He was standing, panting and trembling and naked, before Mycroft in a matter of seconds. The setting sun shone golden at his back, setting his silver hair afire as he waited for Mycroft to react, to say something, to touch him.

Mycroft took a step back and stared at the tanned, nude man. He was silent for quite a few minutes, just gazing at the beautiful expanse of flesh in front of him. And finally, when Gregory began shifting uncomfortably, Mycroft made his move. Reaching one hand forward, he brushed three fingers across Gregory's chest, feeling the heartbeat. "I don't understand," he said finally, "how anyone could want to leave you." And then he stepped close again and began to kiss Gregory's neck, chest, lapping at the skin, worshiping it. He knelt down, kissing lower and lower, sucking softly at the hollows of the detective inspector's hips, moaning softly. This was the best night he had spent in... a long time. Better than the frenzied nights in the hotels. Better than the long days on the beach. Far better than the lonely nights in his bed with his thoughts and the comfort of his hand.

Greg stood above the kneeling man, his hands threading through his hair, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. Mycroft's tongue probed his flesh, his lips kneading and discovering untouched places that sent Greg's knees shaking. He whimpered, letting his head fall back and moaning as a pair of soft, silken hands worked their way up the back of his thighs, and he nearly buckled when a rush of warm, damp breath ghosted over the head of his aching cock. "And... I don't know how.. you've been alone all these years," he grated out, shuddering with the overpowering sense of need for the man before him. "H..How you've wasted away in here.. by yourself." His strong hands grabbed Mycroft's elbows, pulling him back up, and Greg looked him in the eye fully, sincerity in his every feature. "Come on," he whispered, and in the two simple words were such promises. So much hope, and promise for Mycroft. He sat on the bed, tugging his lover along with him, his throat dry.

Mycroft cleared his throat and allowed Gregory to pull him close. "Enigma." He shook his head, kissing the man lightly on the lips. Such kind, honest words. It rocked one of Mycroft's core beliefs, that humans were intrinsically selfish and cruel beings. He crawled on top of the detective inspector's lap, kneading his lips along the tanned neck. Gregory's body was warm and comforting, and between them he could feel their cocks, rubbing both together and against their stomachs. Dripping with pre-cum and hard, Mycroft had a strong urge to take them both up as he had done not that long ago, and rub them together. After all, Gregory's prick must be as aching as his own was.

The mouth on his neck was driving the detective inspector mad. He allowed the movement for a few seconds longer, letting his body twitch and roll beneath Mycroft, but as the pressure built, and he began to feel the other man's body moving in an all-too-familiar rhythm, Greg hesitated, pressing his palm against the pale chest, his heat galloping rapidly. "W..wait."

Mycroft ceased his movements and looked down at the man, his cheeks flushed. "Is something wrong?" He asked, his breathing heavy.

"No." Greg kissed his cheek, his hands wandering Mycroft's chest as he panted, looking down at their bodies. Mycroft had settled on his hips, their thighs pressed together, cocks trapped between the two flat stomachs, a tangled mess of ivory and weathered tan. It struck Greg that they were rather beautiful like this... a contrast of lovely errors. He smiled lopsidedly up at the man on his hips, and kissed his lips lightly. "If.. we're about to do what I think we're about to do.. I've not been with a man before, Mycroft." Greg did not look or sound sheepish or ashamed... it was, like everything else, quite matter of fact. "I believe you have, so.. If you'd like to take the reins.." Just this once. Greg was a take charge sort of bloke, but he did like to learn first-hand.

Mycroft nodded, getting off of Gregory and sitting next to him, his hands clasped in his lap. "Then I ought to ask which position you would prefer." He glanced over at the silver haired man, a soft look close to adoration in his eyes. It did not matter what Gregory wanted, be it top or bottom, Mycroft would do whichever he chose just to be allowed to touch this beautiful creature.

The frozen look on Greg's face spoke volumes. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking very comical as he blinked at Mycroft, clearly worried about the next words to come out of his mouth. He looked horribly conflicted, and at last settled on a choked, "Wh..which do you think is best for me?" The question cost him dearly. He'd blanched pale beneath his healthy glow.

Mycroft laughed and took one of Gregory's hands in his own, kissing up the palm and along the inner side of the arm. "I think that whichever one you felt more comfortable in would be the absolute best for you." He replied fondly, reaching the hollow of Gregory's shoulder and flicking his tongue out to trace along it. "What one do you want? I am not demanding." Not with Gregory, at any rate. Mycroft cared too much to demand more than his fair share. "Would you rather be inside me? Or be penetrated?" He looked up at the man with kind, loving blue eyes. "I will not make you uncomfortable, Gregory. I will not force you into anything you do not wish... in the bedroom."

That caught Greg's attention. He snorted, butting his head against Mycroft's gently, indignant at the very idea that Mycroft thought he could make him do anything. But... if it was really up to him... His thin lips grazed the shell of the delicate ear, and his hands began working towards his arse, squeezing it. "I want inside you," he breathed, and was delighted when Mycroft shivered. "Wanted inside you that first night in Italy," Greg admitted softly, pulling Mycroft to lie on top of him as he reclined on his back, his legs winding in the other man's, securing him to his chest. "Been thinking about it ever since."

Mycroft nodded, kissing underneath Gregory's chin. "Very well." He murmured, resting his head in the crook of Gregory's neck. "It's simple from here on out. I can either prepare myself or, if you wish, you can." He rubbed his cock against Gregory's thigh, moaning at the relief the friction caused. "Please, just hurry." It was a needy plea, an almost desperate plea. Because Mycroft had been wanting the same thing, well he hadn't cared who topped, since that night. Since before, if he allowed himself to admit it.

"Prepare you." Greg reached out for the lubricant, far less confident than his smile and light hearted tone would have Mycroft believe. He thought a moment, then slid the bottle into his lover's hand without a word, trusting him to understand. Greg watched curiously as Mycroft took it from him, a splotch of colour in his cheeks. This... this would be interesting. Greg sat back on the bed, brown eyes wide, not wanting to miss a moment of this. Since coming back from Italy, this moment had been a constant subject of fantasy and powerful curiosity, and he was not ashamed to admit he'd wanked to the thought of Mycroft touching himself... well, many, many times now. Sometimes... he thought of this. And though he'd never experienced sex with another man, he was bloody eager to get on with it. If John Watson and Sherlock Holmes could enjoy it as much as they so OBVIOUSLY did, then... Gregory wanted to taste a little, just a tiny bit, of that sort of pleasure. And the fact that he was falling for the man currently in bed with him helped.

Mycroft steeled himself, holding the bottle as though it mattered little to him which option Gregory had chosen. He was far too prideful to admit how very... embarrassed he was to be indulging in this activity in front of another person. With an air of confidence and nonchalance that he did not at all feel, Mycroft popped the cap off and began coating fingers in the stuff. Reaching behind himself he located the tight, sensitive pucker, gently pushing in one finger. He had not touched himself in this way for a very, very long time. His arse generally never entered into his sexual encounters, not in this way at any rate. He bit back a low moan as he felt the cool finger twist about inside him. Biting his lower lip, Mycroft's head fell back as he added another, speeding up the process, eager to get it done with. It felt almost shameful to be doing this in front of another person. A third finger slid in and he gasped aloud as the digits twisted about, crooking and scissoring inside him.

"Oh bloody hell." Greg's eyes traveled up and down Mycroft's open body, his throat going dry as he gazed in wonder at his new lover. The dusky light highlighted the curving lines of Mycroft's torso, sending shadows into the valley of his abdomen and taut stomach, dancing in the crevices and hollows. His face was a mask of fear, pleasure, and anticipation, and Greg found that he was stroking himself as he watched, his cock twitching and warm in his rough hand. As the slender, white fingers penetrated Mycroft's tight hole again and again, Lestrade's movements quickened, his eyes rounding and his breath coming in ragged pants as he drank in the sight eagerly. "Oh, fuck, that looks gorgeous," he whispered, a foolish grin spreading on his face. Mycroft's jerking spasms were almost musical, each muscle rolling in time with the fingers digging into the pucker. He impaled himself on them, over, over, over again, whimpers escaping the long throat. Greg grabbed for the lube, slicking it over his cock with impatience. "Shit, that's lovely."

Mycroft's body shuddered as he heard Gregory's praise. With deep, shuddering breaths he pulled the fingers out and sat heavily down. He was good enough, well, as stretched as he was going to get with just his fingers. The burn was still there, he could feel it in his arse, and he knew it would be much worse when Gregory finally penetrated, but he didn't mind. Not this time. "Are you ready?" He asked softly, climbing on the detective inspector's lap and kneeling up, his arse right above the pulsating dick. At least the man was still aroused even after seeing the spectacle Mycroft had made of himself.

"Oh, yes." Greg's hands moved, climbing up Mycroft's back, gently massaging the tense muscles in his shoulder blades. Hell, this bloke was wound tighter than an overworked pocket watch. He sank back in the pillows, letting his fingers wander the petal soft skin, up his neck, down the pectorals, his gaze focused on Mycroft's beautiful turquoise eyes. "Ready when you are," he murmured, choosing his words very carefully. He meant exactly what they said... he was ready, hell yes, but he was ready when Mycroft was. He couldn't think of a more intimate, trusting, vulnerable act than what they were about to do, and Greg was in no hurry. He could wait for his lover to be ready. He reached for one of Mycroft's small, soft hands, and he brought the knuckles to his lips, kissing each one as his prick nudged the rosy, warm ring of muscle. It took a great deal of effort not to just.. push inside... but Gregory Lestrade was a disciplined man. He sighed, sucking the index finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip.

Mycroft would have choked had he not been trained to take surprises with a cool exterior. He stared down at Gregory's mouth, shuddering as the warm, soft flesh created a delicious suction on his finger. Somehow it seemed even more surprising than any of the other things Lestrade had willingly done to pleasure Mycroft. He couldn't explain it. "Of course I'm ready," Mycroft growled, his chest rumbling. "I wouldn't have asked you if I had not been. This is simply... a very grave thing. Not something that you can return from." He looked down into the deep brown eyes and took one of Gregory's hands in his own, pressing it to his cheek. Then he lowered himself onto the cock. It took every ounce of dignity and pride he had not to cry out in pain. Three fingers could never have prepared him for the thick, hot shaft that was slowly impaling itself in him. He let his head fall to Gregory's shoulder, unwilling to let his face slip from the confident mask until it was hidden from view. Biting his lip, Mycroft settled himself fully on Gregory's cock and stayed there, unmoving. He was completely filled, he could feel each vein and every ridge. He could feel how it twitched and the wetness of the precum as it touched the walls of his arse. It was not... it was not unpleasant. Not by a long shot.

They remained there on the bed, holding on to one another tightly, Mycroft's face buried in Greg's neck and shoulder, for several long moments. They breathed in unison, shallow and wavering. Their hands clutched each other's skin, and little convulsions ran through their bodies as small movements sent sensation tearing through their nervous systems.

Greg lay perfectly still, struggling with the overpowering desire to wiggle, to buck, to grab onto the thin hips and slide his cock in and out of the snug, warm, velvety tunnel. Mycroft was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He tingled, all over, as little lightning bolts of pleasure shot off in his core, licking at his gut and his limbs, sending his blood rushing hot in his veins. The weight of Mycroft's body resting on his hips was wonderfully close, a heavy, real, tangible presence that assured him of the reality of the moment. Greg needed that. It grounded him, and gave him the strength and confidence to reach up, threading his hands through Mycroft's soft hair, and he began to murmur comforting noises to the man, rotating his hips a little.

Mycroft moaned as the shaft began to move ever so slightly, rocking just enough to make his body ache for more. "If you're going to move," said he through gritted teeth, "then move. Do not play around!" With that he rolled his hips emphatically, not paying any heed to the immense pain that accompanied each and every movement. He knew from past experience that there was much pleasure to be derived from this action, and he just had to plough through the pain. That was all. He lifted himself up a little and thrust down, hissing into Gregory's neck. "Move, just move." The elder Holmes brother began to kiss his neck, licking and sucking at it. He knew Gregory would not be able to resist the command when it was so obvious that he wanted to do exactly what Mycroft was telling him to.

Greg's grip found its way to the man's thighs, and he moaned, rocking up twice before pausing again, his chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. Mycroft's mouth was silky and coaxing on his neck, causing his cock to jump inside of him every time the thin lips grazed his jaw, or the teeth latched on to his tanned skin. Greg cursed softly, still reeling from the few seconds of unprecedented, immeasurable ecstasy that those tiny movements had brought. And yet... still, so stiff, so tense. Mycroft was coiled, perched above him, trying so, so hard to be strong, to be stoic, to be a good lover for him. Greg's heart blew open, suddenly filled to the brim with Mycroft Holmes, and he gathered him tightly in his arms, rolling over to pin him on his back. He kissed him deeply, settling in between the thin legs, his dick still wrapped in the decadent heat. With slow, deliberate thrusts, Greg began to move in and out, his tongue tracing his mouth, his fingers lacing with Mycroft's on the bed.

Mycroft flushed and turned his head, his heart thudding wildly. He never would have allowed this position before! Never would have allowed someone to have this much control over him. But it felt good. The thrusts, not the transfer of power. That could never feel good. Not a chance. No possible way. He would always hate it, because, of course, he hated it. Mycroft's flush grew even deeper and he snapped at his brain to quit analysing. The slow, steady pace made Mycroft's toes curl and his fingers tighten around Gregory's hands. "You may move faster. I am not made of porcelain. I am not a delicate tea cup." He laughed a little and closed his eyes. Oh, it felt good. Gregory's cock was thick and wet and very, very hot inside him. Every time he moved Mycroft could feel each one of the veins and ridges, he could feel how the skin dragged against his, and how the leaking head just grazed his prostate, sending lightning bolts of pleasure through his body. It was magnificent.

Greg could barely speak between grunts and groans, for Mycroft's body was the most welcoming damned thing he'd ever felt. It hugged him, cradled him, caressed him, and as the man below him began to hold his breath and move his hips to meet the thrusts, Greg thought perhaps he would faint from the heady pleasure of it all. "D..don't want to go faster," he gasped, his words ending in a strangled noise like a cat. "So.. beautiful.. don't want to go too fast." Hell, if he moved any faster, he'd be cumming, and that would be bloody embarrassing. As it was, the slow pace was too good, too full of sensation. Greg could easily let himself go, and just let it wash over him. He concentrated instead on how lovely Mycroft looked as he tensed and relaxed on the bed, a never ending rhythm that danced to the timing of his smooth, wave like thrusts. The brown eyes moved down the long expanse of thigh and calf to Mycroft's feet, and he whimpered with a smile as he saw the toes curling in the sheets. "Am I hurting you?" he asked shakily, terrified of the answer. He wasn't sure he could stop, even if he was. He continued to grind into him deep, pulling out a little, pushing back in slow, his entire frame trembling with the effort to hold back.

Mycroft's eyes shot open and he turned his head to face the silver haired man. "Don't be stupid." He snapped. And with that, he slammed his hips down hard, practically shouting out as Gregory's cock thrust up against his prostate with extreme force. He then wrapped his legs around the man's waist and kissed his chin, nibbling along the day old stubble. "My toes," he said softly, "curl when I feel good." The sharp eyes of Mycroft Holmes had not missed the tiny noise, the look of worry after Gregory had seen his feet. "I would never have told you to go faster if you were hurting me. You may count on that, Gregory. As it is... it feels..." He moaned in the man's ear, pleasure mounting inside his skull. "Exquisite" It was really all he could manage to say, for the constant rocking, the hands on his body, the noises in his ears, everything roiled about in his mind, filling up space, allowing room for nothing but the most ultimate of pleasures.

"Well, fuck it, then." Greg grinned down at him, and once more took his hands, holding them hard against the mattress, and he began to snap his hips faster. The brown eyes sparked, and his mouth fell open as he stared into his lover's face, for as good as the slow rocking had seemed... oh hell. This was madness. This was insane. This was.. "FUCK!" Greg's head shot backwards, and his thrusts grew wild and quick, slamming in and out. With every drove in, he arched his back, bringing their stomachs together, trapping Mycroft's slender, long cock between them, and he captured a swift kiss on the man's lips. The massive bed groaned beneath the frantic shagging, creaking, and Greg had the passing thought that the bed needed a hell of a lot more use. He intended to give it some. "Mycroft," he grunted, meeting the wide teal eyes with a boyish, delighted smile as he pummeled him, "you're the damned tightest thing I've ever fucked in my life. You're... you're a bloody wet dream, you know that? Shit, if you could see what I'm looking at right now..."

Mycroft Holmes was lovely. Naked, spread out, moaning, hard, wrecked.. and lovely.

"Oh shut up." Mycroft muttered, turning his head once more. He closed his eyes tightly, thankful he could not see what Gregory saw. He was quite sure that if he did he would lose his erection, possibly forever. What was appealing about an overweight old man? Absolutely nothing. Except maybe that his arse was tight. In contrast, however, Mycroft's partner was an exceptional beauty. Tan skin, soft brown eyes, beautiful smile, perfect body. Yes, Gregory Lestrade was definitely something to look at. And seeing him in the throes of ecstasy was even more appealing. Mycroft looked back at him and leaned forward, kissing the inviting lips. "I am going to cum soon, I think." He murmured, tightening around the thick, welcome intrusion. Inside the pressure was building, his muscles coiling, readying. The friction between their stomachs was making his cock ache and twitch with the need to release.

Greg reared back a little, just enough to wrap his palm, still slick with lube, around the base of Mycroft's prick. It struck him in that moment, as he rammed into his arse that this was the most surreal, and yet most absolutely real thing that he'd ever done. The contrast made him smile, and with quick, sure motions, he began to stroke him, fascinated by how the silken head turned lavender under his attentions. "Come on then," he said, his voice guttural and thick with the hazy beginnings of his own orgasm. The tighter Mycroft's muscles became, the higher his pleasure climbed. It was peaking, and Greg was powerless to stop it. The rhythm was lost in the headlong, mindless effort to reach the pinnacle together. "Cum for me, I want to watch you."

Mycroft snorted a little, but he did not argue. He could not have. Gregory's hand was doing too good of a job, making him incapable of putting together a well formed sentence let alone a decent argument. He curled his fingers around the silky sheets, exploding in Gregory's hand. Arcs of white sperm landed on his chest, some even on his cheeks and his sharp nose. Euphoric pleasure over took his body and he tossed about, throwing one arm over his head to claw at his solid wood headboard. Long, thin legs tightened around Gregory's waist as he rocked back, gasping and shouting out.

A loud, choking laugh burst from Lestrade's throat as he watched Mycroft climax, and he yelled his name, unloading deep into him with one final, piercing drive. He stayed there for long moments, feeling the muscles caress his cock as it pulsed, his entire body rigid. At last he sagged, still laughing softly, and he rained kisses on the pale chest, disbelief and extreme satisfaction on his handsome face. "Bloody hell," he said again softly, licking at one pert, pink nipple, his hands wandering the lean body. "Bloody hell."

Mycroft stared unblinking into the white ceiling, his chest heaving as he took deep, gasping breaths. This was the first time. The first time someone had cum in him without a condom. His body slowly began to loosen, relaxing as the warm mouth worked around his chest. It felt good, proper, right. Tired hands made their way to Gregory's back and he cut back the urge to yawn. Now that the explosive sexual urges had been sated, he remembered how fatigued he had been earlier. Remembered it and made a mental note to get more sleep. Somehow. It would not do to be this tired all the time. "We ought to get cleaned up," he murmured thickly, struggling to keep his eyes open. "And change the bedding. They've jizz all over them."

Greg was silent for exactly four seconds before he burst into a fit of loud, raucous laughter. "What the HELL?" he cried, pushing up and blinking down at the sleepy, surprised man. "Did.. you just say jizz? You? Mycroft Holmes?" Mycroft looked indignant, but the detective inspector swooped down and kissed him thoroughly, still chuckling. "Jizz." He rolled out of bed and trotted down the hall, poking his head in doors at random until he found the loo. He returned to the bedroom, naked and completely without shame as he tossed a warm, damp towel to Mycroft on the bed. "There. Clean up, and point me to the linens."

"Down the hall, third door to your left. Linens are on the top shelf." Mycroft answered, still prickly from Gregory's earlier outburst. He was allowed to say that! It wasn't as though he was completely archaic and formal. The elder Holmes brother stood up and grimaced a little at the stabs of pain that swarmed his lower back. Limping a little, he made his way to the loo and closed the door behind him. A washcloth was simply not going to do it. Not when he had cum leaking out of his arse.

Greg waited patiently for his lover to shower, allowing him the time alone. He felt.. oddly light. Giddy. Like he'd just had the best shag of his life, which.. he had. He cleaned up a bit and sat on the bed, humming to himself as he scrolled through his phone, and saw a text he'd missed while they were shagging like madmen. Greg smirked, typing out a reply.

Sorry, Sherlock, I'm off work for the night. got a date. - Lestrade

The reply text came five minutes later, simply meaning that Sherlock and John were in the middle of fucking wildly, and Sherlock had managed to sneak a glance at his mobile.

It's not technically a date if all you do is fuck. At least that's what John keeps reminding me every time I try to use that as an excuse to get out of his ridiculous ideas as dates. - SH

And apparently crime scenes don't count either. Or chasing criminals. Dating is dull. Stop having sexual intercourse with my brother. It's putting me off my tea. - SH

Greg's laughter was deep and sonorous, and he wondered at what point he'd started feeling so damned lovely that he laughed so much. Laughed during sex, laughed after, laughed at Sherlock... bloody hell he wanted a peek at Mycroft in the shower. No. No, he was going to give the man a little alone time. He grinned, glad to finally have the chance to pay Sherlock back for some of the less than savoury positions he'd found him and John in.

It's a date if I sleep over, which I intend to. And it's a date if we snog a great deal, which we have. And you'll just have to be put off your tea, because your brother is a damned good shag. - Lestrade

He thought a moment, his smile faltering. With a sober face and tender eyes, Greg added another thought.

I'm.. quite fond of him, Sherlock. - Lestrade

Don't make me throw up. It's obvious you're bloody well fond of him. - SH

I think even John could pick up on that "subtle" hint. - SH

I don't like it. - SH

Why not? I was rather hoping you'd be pleased for me. For us. - Lestrade

He's MYCROFT. My BROTHER. I hate him, remember? Thought you did, too. - SH

You don't hate him, and I never hated him. Mycroft's a fine chap, and I like him very much. I think I'll keep him. - Lestrade

Fine. Just don't cry when he throws you out. He doesn't like strays. - SH

I haven't even asked him to let me stay, yet. And I may not be a pure bred poodle like you, but I'm a loyal mutt. Goodnight. - Lestrade

The inspector looked up as a toweled figure appeared in the doorway. He grinned, setting his phone aside and pulling his legs up so that he sat cross legged and slouching on the pillows. "Hey, Mycroft, want to keep me?" he asked matter-of-factly. Sherlock wasn't going to scare him. Not this time.

Mycroft blinked owlishly, clutching the towel to his hips as he peered at the beaming man. "I thought I had already made that abundantly clear." He shuffled over to his wardrobe and pulled out clean pyjamas, wrinkling his nose at them. Of course he would have to be sleeping in them more often now that he had a... a lover of sorts. Letting the towel drop to the floor he pulled up the trousers and set to the task of buttoning up the pyjama shirt, turning around to face his companion. "Sherlock's not wrong. I don't keep people, but... I think I'll make an exception. Just this once." He smiled softly at the man and sat down beside him.

Greg snorted, resting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder and flashing his winning grin. "Told him so." He grabbed his waist and hauled him onto the bed, tangling their legs together and yawning as Mycroft pulled the blankets over their bodies. Sleep was thick in both sets of eyes, their breathing growing slow and steady in the dark. "You don't care if I sleep naked, eh?" Greg tugged playfully at the pyjamas, his eyes sliding shut.

"Not one bit." He replied, resting one arm over the man's waist. "Just let me sleep. I have to go to Buckingham tomorrow and I need to be somewhat coherent."

"Sleep sounds... good." Greg buried his nose in his hair, inhaling once deeply before he kissed the crown of his head, and let himself drift away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's a happy ending for you because we care! Thank you for sticking it through all 9 chapters! Be kind and review/leave kudos!


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